Angel's Sacrifice
by toaels
Summary: "Well, according to the tablet – to lock the doors of Heaven, there has to be a final sacrifice." Naomi's lips twitched in a trace of a smile. "So, it only makes sense that there has to be one to unlock it, as well. The ultimate sacrifice." Starts right after the events in 8x23, Sacrifice
1. 0 Prologue, Last Piece of Earth

0. Prologue, Last Piece of Earth

Stars fell like rain. There were so many – they left burning, bright trails across the deep blue canvas like desperate strokes of an artist. They fell, blinked, burst, and faded away to the other end of the universe – to a cemetery of fallen stars, maybe. Neil had no idea where falling stars fell. If they died, if that was what they were, spectacular deaths of stars. In fact, he didn't know anything about stars. He'd never even seen a meteor shower until today.

They had been on the road, middle of nowhere, had no idea where the road ended and darkness began. No lights save for the two flimsy yellow ones from his headlight. They had been arguing. No, Jessie had been blabbing relentlessly, in her pissed-off voice, and Neil had been trying his best to tune that out – like white noise – and gripping his steering wheel tight. He kept looking for a road sign, but it was too dark to see. Until the sky lit up. So suddenly and silently that he first thought _atomic bomb, _for some reason.

Stop the car, Jessie had said, and Neil did. They were in the middle of the road but it didn't really matter because they hadn't seen another car for at least three hours. They stumbled out to the empty road, the night air still cool but it wasn't dark anymore. Too many stars. They lit up the road and the trees watching silently by the side. They also revealed the tacky blue signpost that Neil hadn't seen before. The letters on the aluminum were scratched away in some places, but he could still make out the words. And then he had turned his eyes upward to where Jessie was already staring. Stars.

He didn't know much about them, really. He liked to think of himself as a down-to-earth kind of guy, never having speculated much about what he couldn't hold down physically. Stars only mattered when they _set the mood_ (as Jessie liked to call it) above the backyard of his house as he proposed to Jessie, sparkling furiously that summer night. They could have been pieces of jewels stitched in a drape above their heads, for all he knew. Tonight, though, the stitches were coming off and the gems were dropping. So many of them, too. It was unnatural and it terrified him, for some reason.

Jessie had a different take, though. "They're beautiful," she said, almost out of breath. Neil made himself look down, and found Jessie's face a good distraction. He watched her profile, lit up in a soft blue light, eyes twinkling with wonder and lips hanging open, as he murmured an answer. "Yeah, beautiful." He wondered why he felt like the world was coming to an end. Like it was burning away all around them, except for this stretch of road that seemed to extend forever into the dark, except for this piece of sky lit up with a thousand falling stars. No one left except for him and Jessie…

Jessie was still transfixed to the sky, so it was Neil who saw him first. For a moment he just stared, not knowing what to think. The stars had thrown reality into a shaky perspective. Everything felt surreal now, and too real, and the stars was raining while the world was a stretch of empty road, so a man in a trenchcoat suddenly standing there in the yellow headlight didn't seem so weird. The man had a glazed and pained look about him, like it was pieces of him that was falling apart and down from the sky. For a while Neil stared at the man and the man stared back, until Jessie noticed his stillness and finally tore her eyes from the sky, did a double take and retreated a step behind the half-open car door. Neil shook himself out of his reverie then, or whatever it was – hypnosis – wishing for a beer.

"Strange sight, huh." Neil indicated the firework show above them, speaking conversationally. The man didn't comment nor react, except to blink slowly and painfully like Neil had poked him with a white-hot iron rod. Neil flinched at the rawness in his eyes. The eyes were so blue they almost looked out-of-world.

There was a moment to draw a breath, and then the man had composed his face again. He nodded at Neil like Neil had no idea how strange it was. _Strange, try apocalyptic. _

"Neil." Jessie hissed, like _he _could do something about a freakish trench-coat man in the middle of the road, which – as far as he knew – still could be the last piece of earth. He cleared his throat, though, and opened his mouth to say something. Only he had no idea what, so he was glad that the man had chosen that moment to speak. His voice was kind of surreal too, a little too low, a little too flat. Neil expected him to say something like _the day has come, human. Prepare to be judged. _Oh, god, maybe it really _was_ the end of the world.

Instead, the man said, "I need to use your phone," and took a step forward.

Neil let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Jessie looked nervously over at him, but Neil shrugged. He didn't see danger here, unless the stranger pulled a knife on him as he handed the phone over, and somehow Neil doubted that would happen. There was an air about the man. Desolate, was that the word? Kind of like how the sky would feel if all its stars were torn away from it. So he handed his phone over. He even helped the man when he seemed to be looking for buttons that weren't there. It was a touch-phone, after all.

Whoever it was on the other line, answered only after one or two rings. The first word uttered was a name, but spoken like no other Neil had heard before. "Dean," the man said, and it was a plea and apology and prayer at the same time. Neil heard Jessie draw in a soft breath. He drummed his fingers against the car door set up between him and the man like a shield, listening – watching.

"Yes." The man said. His face broke then. The rawness slipped through again. Then he said, "heaven is falling," and Neil looked up at the sky at that. He felt Jessie do the same.

Sky was falling, or maybe heaven was falling, and it was terrifying, ancient sorrow, in the man's voice.

"I'm at…" The man looked around for a sign, found it, and read it slowly to the phone. "Yes. I'll wait." He said. After a pause, he said it again. "I will, Dean. I will wait."

_Not like I have anywhere else to go, _Neil imagined the man saying, but he didn't. He hung up and looked for an off-button before giving up and just handing it back to Neil. "Thank you." He added, almost as an afterthought. Neil nodded.

The man assured them that he was fine to stand and wait, alone – for Dean. Jessie offered to stay and wait with him, and the man looked surprised like he'd noticed her for the first time. Then he shook his head, with a quiet "thank you," and that was that. As they drove away, the man was standing at the side of the road by the signpost. His shoulder was hunched forward a little, like he was too tired to stand up straight. He wasn't fidgeting any, though, and Neil got the feeling that the man was an expert at waiting; as if he'd been doing it for a thousand years.

"Who do you think… he is?" Jessie asked quietly, like she was afraid the man might overhear them. Neil shook his head. "Got no idea."

"Well…" Jessie shifted in her seat to peer back to the man, fading fast into a smudge in the darkness. "I hope Dean reaches him soon, though."

"Yeah." Neil answered. _I hope Dean can save him_. It was a strange thing to be thinking about a stranger, but then, everything tonight had been strange.

And if the heaven was falling, the man in a trench-coat wouldn't be the only one who needed saving.


	2. 1 Blue Flowers by His Bed

1. Blue Flowers by His Bed

_Is that angels falling, _he'd asked. Yes.

_Are you okay? _Heaven is falling. He'd meant to say _angels_, but it was the same thing, and it wasn't an answer to Dean's question. Then Dean had asked, _where are you, _and he had told him.

_I'll be there. Wait. _

Yes, I'll wait.

_Cas? _Dean, being Dean, always having problem with faith – but Castiel deserved no better. Not this time, not last time. _Cas, don't go anywhere. Wait, okay?_

I will, Dean. I will wait.

So he waited.

* * *

The lights from the Impala cast yellow shadows over the road, and he looked up. He'd lost track of time; it wasn't something he could tell now. Time, like everything else, was hazy and uncomfortable, like looking through rain-splattered glass. He remembered it used to be clear. Clear and flexible, fluid, flowing strong and tangible like a stream of river. But that was before.

The car ceased rolling in the middle of the road, and Dean opened the door. No sign of Sam, but he would be somewhere safe. Dean would have made sure. Castiel watched as Dean strode toward him without even bothering to shut the door. The sky was darker now, the headlight the only thing lighting the side of Dean's face. The darkness infiltrated his eyes like never before, like germs, disease, cobweb. Castiel couldn't really make out Dean's expression, and he would have been scared of that if he wasn't so numb.

"Cas, you okay?" Dean demanded when he got close enough, rough and sharp like he could shake the right answer out of him if he was intimidating enough. Still the darkness was seeping through his vision like poison and still he couldn't see Dean's face. Just an outline, as he reached for Castiel and pulled him to the car.

"I'm…" _fine. _Castiel realized he'd just been about to lie. He tried a different approach.

"I can't see your face." He said, murmured, as Dean opened the passenger side door and softly pushed his shoulder inside. Castiel bent his limbs, stiff and still numb, and folded himself into the car. Dean might have chuckled, but it was such a faint sound in the numbing night. "Well, yeah. It's dark."

"It's never been a problem before." Castiel said. Dean didn't answer to that, just waited until all of Castiel was inside the car and slammed the door shut. Castiel watched him walk around to the driver's seat and the yellow headlight shone on his face for a few seconds. He could see Dean's face then, but didn't know what it meant. He'd always had a problem reading Dean's expressions. There were too many to keep a neat record of them all, with proper labels and appropriate reactions.

The driver's side door opened, letting in a whiff of night air and Castiel shivered a little. Dean glanced at him and rolled the windows up. For a moment it was thick silence, disturbed only by Dean fumbling with the key, and then the engine roared to life. It was so much louder than Castiel remembered, and it startled him.

At least this was familiar, though. Sitting in the Impala with Dean. Even if it felt like someone had covered his eyeballs with a layer of dirty plastic and his back and neck hurt like he hadn't understood before.

"So," Dean started as he turned the car around sharply. The edge of the road came dangerously close, then they were speeding again. Castiel thought he felt his insides tumble, realizing human organs really weren't held together solidly enough. He grabbed the handle on the door. Dean looked like he could be laughing, if he wasn't so tired.

"So you're…" He cleared his throat, swallowing down whatever he might have said. _Human, _probably, as if it was some kind of an insult. "What happened?" He settled on that instead, glancing quickly at Castiel before looking out at the road again.

"Metatron cut my grace out. It was the last component for the spell." Castiel answered, because he had been asked, and he noted his voice sounded faint. Maybe telling the truth actually hurt humans in a physical sense. That would explain why they lie so often. He really _did _feel a weight in his chest, like a rock was sitting where his heart should be.

"Son of a bitch." Dean muttered, dangerously. He had that glimmer in his eyes, and _that_ Castiel recognized. "Dean," he warned, but stopped himself. What was he going to say? _Don't do anything reckless_ – like he had any kind of authority. What little he'd had, convenient transportation, healing broken ribs – they were gone now. So he spat out another truth, and this time it hurt like someone was hammering a nail into his chest. "He cast all of us out. All the angels."

"Locked you out? Why?" Dean crumpled up his face, his lips twitching, eyebrows furrowing. A look that he got sometimes, when he thought the ways of Heaven and Hell were too much for him – as if human affairs were so simple. Castiel turned his eyes and faced the window instead.

"We betrayed… he thought we betrayed him. Corrupted Heaven with all our fighting."

"So he kicked everyone out and threw away the keys? What's he, like, five?"

Castiel didn't have an answer to that. A long time ago, he would have pointed out that Metatron was one of the first angels to be created, and certainly more than five years old. A lot of time had passed, though, and Castiel had learned a thing or two.

"Where is Sam?" He asked instead. Dean's face instantly changed, the lines in his face deepening like ravines between Heaven and Hell.

"He passed out. Started having seizures. Had to put him in the hospital."

"Is he…" Castiel shifted in his seat, alarm cutting through his hazy head like a knife, drawing blood.

"He's okay, now. They stabilized him. But, uh," Dean dragged his hand down his face. A nervous habit. "He hasn't woken up yet." His eyes flickered to Castiel, a whisper of hope in them. Like maybe Castiel would know what was wrong, what to do – like he could fix his brother. But Castiel was not an angel anymore.

"I'm sorry, Dean." He said. This time the truth hurt like holy fire on his skin. "I don't know what's wrong with him. I… I don't know what to do."

There must have been something on his face, Castiel thought, something malicious and hollow and desperate like everything he'd been trying to hold down. Because Dean took one look at his face, gulped down whatever had been hanging on his lips, and the car came to a stop. He killed the engine and stared at Castiel for a little while. A second, a minute, a lifetime, Castiel couldn't tell. Then he slipped out of the car and Castiel followed, because it felt like Dean was telling him what to do, and he clung onto that as hard as he could. So when Dean shut the door, _thump _of hard metal, leaned on the hood of the car and flicked his gaze up to the sky, Castiel followed.

The sky was bare, empty at first. Castiel was used to seeing every star, every dot of brilliant fire against the volatile particles of the night, that the empty darkness scared him. But the last of his brothers and sisters were still falling, and they were bright enough for his human eyes to follow. He watched them like he did few hours ago, unable to say anything, unable to feel anything except the intense emptiness in the core of his being. He watched, forgetting everything around him, forgetting himself, screaming and sobbing inside his head but nothing cracking the surface. For such a fragile being, human body could hold in so much. Such violent explosion, that Castiel was surprised it didn't set the skin aflame.

As he watched, as he blinked slowly, stars started showing themselves. Just needed time to adjust to the darkness, after all. Not nearly as enough as before, but the sky was filling up with a thousand blinking lights. They were silver, gold, small, big, bright, faint. They trailed across the night like scattered pieces of grace. Castiel watched until the last brother fell and faded. Only then did he realize his neck was hurting from looking up so long. It was unpleasant, muscles screaming and demanding release, muscles that would not be calmed because he wanted them so. When he looked down, massaging the back of his neck, Dean was looking at him. It was still dark, but his eyes were used to the frustrating veil now and he could see the green in Dean's eyes. He still couldn't interpret the expression, though. Dean nodded as if he was answering an unasked question and got back into the car. Castiel followed. He wasn't sure why Dean had stopped the car in the first place, but apparently he had a lot to learn about being human. Dean told him to try rolling his neck as he started the car, and the sound of the Impala coming to life didn't sound so loud this time.

* * *

"This is my cousin." Dean said, putting a hand on his arm. To introduce him, hold him back, Castiel didn't know. Another lie. But lies had always been an integral part of the Winchesters' lives. Castiel would have to learn to lie better. For now, he tried his best to look like he belonged there, as a cousin, and not a Fallen Angel with broken strings.

The doctor nodded, spectacles on her nose bobbing up and down. She wasn't much older than Dean. Castiel followed as she led the two of them to Sam's room. Castiel had been in human hospitals a few times, looking for Sam and Dean, and it never ceased to amaze him how _white _everything was.

Sam's room was no exception. It was a small room but Sam was the only person there. The walls, the floors, the sheets were white. A plastic curtain, light blue, hung limply half-drawn and Castiel could see Sam's face through it. For such a big man, Sam looked very small with his eyes closed and lying still in his blankets. There was an empty flower vase on the table by the bed, and Dean's eyes flickered to it, like he couldn't bear anything being empty around Sam. The doctor drew the curtain all the way. Sam's cheeks were hollow, blue beneath his eyes and purple in his right cheekbone like the veins had bruised. Castiel looked at him for a moment, taking him in, apologizing silently. I wish I could fix you.

"No machines hooked up to him, so that's good, right?" Dean asked, boring his eyes into the doctor. She nodded, tapping her chart with a pen.

"Yes, he's been able to hold up his own. Unfortunately… that's all the good news we have."

"Wh… what do you mean?" Dean did the thing again, nervous habit. Castiel didn't look at the doctor as she spoke, and kept his eyes on Dean. Dean's face fell, like the doctor had delivered a death sentence. Not surprised, though. Just disappointed, and tired. Very, very tired.

"Look, we ran every test we could. We're not sure what's wrong with him, why he's not waking up." And she wouldn't. It wasn't for any human doctor to fix Sam. Dean had known that. Castiel watched Dean as he listened to the doctor, apologizing for the bad news and urging him to have hope, he could wake up any moment. There was nothing physically holding him back –

"Thanks, doc." Dean said finally, and the doctor pressed her lips together before nodding and walking out. Dean crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked down at Sam. He was breathing normally, peacefully, almost as if he was just asleep. Dean blinked, rubbed at his eyebrow. He glanced at the empty vase again.

"Flowers, go in there." Castiel said, not so much a confirmation as a reminder. Dean looked at him like Castiel had suggested something much more unholy than putting flowers in a flower vase.

"Yeah, I'm not getting _flowers _for Sam, geez." Dean rolled his eyes. Castiel tilted his head to the side, trying to understand. He was always trying to understand, for many years now, but each time he thought he got close to grasping something important, Dean just got more and more complicated. Like now, Dean was raising his eyebrows and withdrawing slightly away from Castiel, but there was a ghost of a smile on his lips. Hanging, like the light-blue curtain, like it didn't belong there.

"Why not?" Castiel finally asked.

"Because. Just because."

Castiel didn't think that made much sense, but he let it go and returned his gaze upon Sam. Maybe Castiel will get the flowers, later. Maybe blue chamomile, for Sam.

For a while it was like that. Both watching Sam, Castiel with his usual steady gaze and Dean with his worry coloring the air intense blue. It was like watching the stars. Like watching humans had been, millennium upon millennium, watching and existing. Only this time Castiel was human himself, and humans had their needs.

It was the rumbling that seemed to have woken Dean. Castiel wondered where it was coming from, until he realized it was his own body making that noise. He also noted a clenching feeling at his stomach, hollow, like something vital was missing there. And it rumbled again, angry, demanding. Castiel tried to will it silent. It did not comply. It seemed like human body had a mind on its own sometimes, and not entirely under control. That actually explained a few things about them.

"You hungry?" Dean said, and he looked amused if nothing else. Castiel blinked, and tried to explain his symptoms.

"I don't know. I feel… hollow." Castiel frowned. The rumble, again.

"Yeah, well," Dean put a hand on his shoulder, maybe as an apology. Consolation. "Since you're… you know, you've lost your angel superpowers, you need to do, _stuff_ now." He still wouldn't say the word _human_.

"Stuff?" Castiel asked, narrowing his eyes. Dean shrugged. "You know, eating, drinking, sleeping, all that jazz."

"Human stuff." Castiel said, a confirmation this time. Dean just nodded quickly, like Castiel wouldn't have noticed his deliberate non-use of the word. Maybe Dean was trying to protect what little remained of his dignity. But not saying it, didn't make it untrue.

"Come on, let's go out and grab a bite." Dean led him out of the room, but he hesitated at the door, and glanced back like he'd left his soul there. Castiel cleared his throat.

"Doesn't this hospital have a… eating facility?"

"You want hospital food?" Dean looked back at him at that and raised his eyebrows, as if Castiel would be able to tell the difference.

"You are reluctant to leave Sam behind." Castiel said.

"Yeah," Dean eyed him like Castiel was a new species, making notes and Castiel had no idea what they would say. Finally he just nodded. "Yeah, okay."

The elevator was at the end of the hall and Dean searched the information plate with his eyes. "Cafeteria, first floor. Okay, but remember you asked for it. Man, I hope they have burgers." He looked at Castiel, and suddenly seemed to remember something. "Hey, you like burgers too, right?" The green in his eyes came to life, twinkled a little.

"My vessel, Jimmy, likes burgers." Castiel reminded him. Then, after a short pause, "but I did enjoy the taste, as well."

The elevator _dinged_, and Dean chuckled.

* * *

The cafeteria was more gray than white, but Castiel suspected that had something to do with the age-old dust covering the walls and the floors, finally seeping into the particles and permanently dampening the color. Dean didn't seem to care much, though, and Castiel forgot all else as soon as he caught sight of the colorful cans and the bottles of water, sandwiches half-sold out and the sight of the kitchen behind the counter. He suddenly realized his throat was very dry, too.

There were some people scattered about the tin tables, but not many. Patients in white gowns, families eating in heavy silence, a young girl and her grandfather. They all looked tired, but that could just be the pale white lights on their faces.

"What can I get you?" The woman by the counter was saying. Castiel turned his eyes on her. She could be mid-thirties, all soft red hair and light green eyes. Dean could have easily slipped on that smile Castiel had seen so many times, leaned in and started on one of those conversations that were a permanent puzzle to Castiel – why ask questions you already knew the answers to? Dean could have at least complimented her hair. Except he didn't. Except he looked too tired to be thinking about anything other than the problems at hand; which was Sam, and Castiel's pestering need for _human stuff_, and a horde of Angels on the loose, Demons very much _not _locked behind hell's gate, King of Hell himself – wherever he was – a missing prophet, and probably many other things Castiel was not aware of. Too tired to grin, only a shadow of the smile Castiel had seen earlier.

"Don't suppose you have cheeseburgers?"

"It's a hospital, you know. Supposed to be fixing heart diseases, not make them." The woman – Diana, her name plate read – laughed softly. She had a sunny laugh, out-of-place in a gray building smelling of anesthetics.

"Yeah, well. I'll have the… turkey burger, then." Dean said, squinting his eyes at the menu above Diana's head. He turned to Castiel. "Cas?"

Castiel stared back at him, and he must have looked as lost as he felt because Dean chuckled and said, "make that two, please. And, a bottle of water."

"Sure, no problem."

Diana started pushing buttons on her machine, and Dean was leaning on the counter, not particularly looking at anything. She glanced at Dean, though, and her lips pressed into a thin line.

"A family member?" She asked, her tone sympathetic.

Dean hesitated, like he was unsure of what to do with the random emotions strangers gave him, but eventually gave a nod. "Yeah, my brother."

"Your… oh, the tall man they brought in earlier… you were with him, I remember." Diana's face scrunched up in pain, like it was her brother lying unconscious and not Dean's. Maybe, Castiel thought distantly, she considered all humans her brothers and sisters – like Angels did. Castiel was pretty sure that wasn't typically _human_, but then he really didn't know much, did he? Humans, his father's beloved, creatures capable of such great love and hate at the same time. Not even after the millennia spent watching them. So Castiel assumed that Diana must have been trying to comfort Dean when she reached out to put her hand on his, but couldn't tell for sure. Only Dean straightened up and took his hand away from the counter before she touched him. He smiled his non-smile, silently apologizing because he didn't accept comforts from anyone outside his family. Diana took it in good grace, with an understanding smile. Then Dean was fiddling with his jacket like he'd always meant to zip and unzip it meaninglessly, so Castiel stepped up and took the receipt and the burgers she offered.

"You a family, too?" She asked.

"Yes, I'm… his cousin." Castiel answered, waiting for that twist in his guts, pinprick at his skin for the lie – only it never came. Somewhere in the misty labyrinth of his memory, he heard Dean's voice say, _we're family. We need you. I need you. _

Diana patted his hand then, gentle and sympathetic, and Castiel let her. He was busy thinking that maybe – maybe this time, he hadn't lied, after all. He hoped he hadn't. Dean finally looked up and gave her a small smile before leading Castiel to a table. Castiel noted that Dean marched past all the empty tables on the way and chose the one furthest from the counter. They sat down, Castiel handed Dean the receipt, and Dean looked at it like he had no idea what to do with it.

"She seemed nice. Concerned." Castiel said, when Dean finally took the receipt and crumpled it inside his pocket. He shoved his hands in next, looking like a predator sniffing for blood as he scanned the cafeteria.

"Yeah, well. I don't like that. I don't like being pitied, most definitely not by a stranger."

"Yes, I would imagine." Castiel said. Dean frowned, shifting his eyes back to Castiel. His face could have made the surrounding cafeteria look like the drained, fatigued forest of the purgatory. Dean was on edge.

"What d'ya mean?"

"Nothing." Castiel dropped his eyes and pushed one burger in front of Dean. Dean looked at his suspiciously, but took his hands out of his pocket and started unwrapping the turkey burger. Smelled it, and put it back down like he'd smelled a dead rabbit. Castiel sniffed at his, and took a cautious bite. It wasn't as delicious as the burgers he remembered devouring years ago, but it was edible. It would soothe his demanding organs and Dean wouldn't have to leave the hospital – leave Sam. Not because of Castiel, anyway. Although from the look on Dean's face, he was probably considering it.

"Oh, and she forgot the water, too. Great." Dean rolled his eyes, pushing his chair back. It screeched against the floor.

"Wait, Dean." Castiel held a hand to his shoulder. "I'll get it."

He got up before Dean could say anything else. Castiel couldn't heal Sam, couldn't open Heaven's door nor close Hell's. Couldn't even drive to the bunker. The least he could do was get the water.

When he came back, Dean was looking at his phone. He looked up when Castiel sat back down, two bottles of water in his hand. Diana had been sorry.

"I tried calling Kevin, he ain't picking up." Dean said, frustrated. He snapped the phone shut and put it on the table.

"Kevin is smart." Castiel murmured, taking another bite from the burger. "I'm sure… he's alright."

"Yeah." Dean rubbed his eyes this time. "Man, I could sleep for a week."

"Actually…" you couldn't. Human body needs sustenance. Castiel stopped himself just in time, saw Dean grinning at him.

"I see you're getting the figure of speech thing, Cas."

"Not really." Castiel admitted, biting down again. The turkey was dry as paper and the lettuce looked more brown than green, but the sensation of filling his stomach was good. Very satisfying.

"Are we going to talk about the… situation?" Castiel asked a minute later, when Dean still didn't pick up his burger and the phone still didn't ring.

"Which one?" Dean raised his eyebrows, coating things with humor. Dean tended to do it a lot. Only the humor was often stretched to the point of obsolescence. Castiel wasn't going to point that out, though. He shrugged.

"Sam?" Castiel suggested. Dean hesitated for a moment, a world in a second, worry and fear as primal as blood. Then he shook his head slowly, slipping on the mask again.

"Yeah, you know me Cas, I'm really a sharing and caring kinda guy, and talking about my feelings…" Dean paused, and looked at Castiel with a weary grin dangling from his lips. "You know that's a sarcasm, yeah?"

"I am aware." Castiel said. It was one of his more recent discovery, the ways of humans to cover the truth with a lie, sugar glaze on a doughnut. Castiel had even used it himself a few times, and found it especially useful for expressing annoyance. Dean didn't seem annoyed, though. He was snickering into his turkey burger, which he'd finally picked up.

"But you know sarcasm, of course. With the quotey fingers, you want me to use the quotey fingers? 'Cause I can use the quotey fingers…"

"Dean," Castiel stopped him and Dean promptly shut his mouth, but kept smirking – right up until he took the first bite.

"Urgh." Dean stuck out his tongue, face scrunching in exaggerated pain. Castiel looked at his remaining sandwich. It wasn't so bad, he thought, but Dean seemed to find it revolting.

"How do you _eat _that? Here, you want mine?" Dean pushed the half-wrapped burger toward Castiel.

"I don't think it's that bad." Castiel told him. Dean dismissed him with a _phew _and a distracted hand.

"Like you can tell a good sandwich from bad?" And he did have a point. Castiel took the offered burger, though. His stomach wasn't quite happy yet.

A moment passed in silence before Castiel remembered what they had been talking about. It was often a problem with Dean, keeping him anchored in the topic at hand – his attention wandered everywhere like a hungry, lost puppy. More often than he'd like to admit, Castiel found himself digressing and generally being swept along.

"Dean," Castiel said. "What were you going to say?"

"Huh?" Dean looked distracted. He kept checking his phone, drumming his fingers on the table, shaking his leg. Zipping and unzipping the jacket. It was becoming a little annoying, although Castiel hadn't realized it before. No wonder Sam was scowling so much.

"About sharing and caring." Castiel reminded him. Dean frowned, blinked, and Castiel could tell exactly the moment he remembered the conversation. Dean's face might be hard to read sometimes, but at other times it was like hearing revelations. Simple, direct.

"Oh, yeah. I was gonna say," Dean shifted in his seat. "We do have to talk. And we have to figure this thing out. But not today. Not, right now. I'm all beat, and you don't look too great yourself." Dean looked at Castiel. Castiel thought about saying _I'm fine_, but stopped himself. Because he probably wasn't, and Dean definitely needed the rest, if only for a night. So he nodded and said something else instead.

"Why did you stop the car and watch the stars?"

"What?" The question must have sounded out of blue, Castiel realized. Dean was blinking at him.

"Back at the road. You stopped the car, and we watched the stars. Why?" Castiel clarified.

"Oh, well." Dean frowned, looking like a parent being asked a particularly difficult question by a five-year-old. Where to people go when they die? Why is the sky blue?

"I dunno. You looked like you needed it. You know, sometimes when we have too much to think about, I'd just stop the car and Sammy and I would…"

"Watch the stars?" Castiel supplied, when Dean waved his hand in a vague motion. Dean nodded.

"Yeah. For a while we'd just sit quietly and for a while it was okay to, forget about, whatever the problem of the month was. It helps sometimes."

"Watching the stars?"

"Yes, dammit, stop saying that." Dean rolled his eyes and threw his hands in the air, exasperated. Castiel frowned. "Why?"

"Because…"

"Is it the same reason you won't bring flowers to Sam?" Castiel asked, only because he recognized the expression. Mortal phobia of anything _uncool_, Sam had told Castiel once, except Castiel had no idea what that meant. Although, Sam had been sneering when he said that, so it may have been a joke.

"Yes," Dean's face actually brightened, a parent proud to see his son can name different kinds of trees in the garden. "You're finally starting to get it, Cas."

"Maybe." Castiel said vaguely, hiding his face behind the burger.

* * *

Castiel didn't like the elevator. It was too small, smelled like chemicals and sorrow, had too many mirrors. Like a prison within his head. He felt his chest tighten, like half of his lung had filled with small pebbles. Castiel kept glancing at the ceiling, imagining the ropes and the chains and the pulleys. He almost wished for the hunger to return, a distraction. Dean didn't notice Castiel growing still beside him. He was frowning at his phone.

The elevator finally stopped at the fifth floor – Sam's floor. Castiel squeezed out of it before the door was fully open. Drew in a breath, feeling miserable and pathetic. It scared him that he wouldn't have been able to grab Dean and teleport out of the box if it suddenly stopped or exploded. It frustrated him that he was scared. Dirty grey frustration, tinted by a shade of red – humiliation. Because he was _human _now.

"Aw, man, the reception here sucks." Dean complained, walking past Castiel. Castiel hurried to catch up with him. Whatever he did, whatever he _felt _– Dean didn't have to know about it. He already had too much to think about.

Dean was walking fast. It didn't look like he was doing it on purpose, though, just lost in his mind and forgetting the world around him. He had that particular look on his face. Castiel quickened his pace, and almost bumped into a nurse.

Castiel grumbled an apology. The white hallway wasn't too narrow, but Castiel had been looking at the back of Dean's head and the nurse had been scribbling on her pad. She faltered a little, Castiel held her hand to steady her, she looked up and –

Castiel hadn't thought that human blood could freeze so instantly. Every bone and muscle in his body seemed to freeze with it, to the point where a touch might fracture him, shatter him into pieces of ice. It took a moment to realize that the nurse was no longer in front of him, was walking away in the opposite direction but there was a piece of paper in his hand. Castiel stared down at it, heart beating too slow and too fast at the same time. Cursive writing, as elegant and impersonal as a fairy castle in a dream – _Castiel, we need to talk. Alone._

Castiel turned his head to stare at the disappearing back of the nurse. She was tall, a sure way about her. Brown hair in a neat bun – for a short second she turned her head and their eyes met. He couldn't see her entirely because he was a human now, but her eyes. Cold blue like pieces of a soul. Like a frozen ocean. Her eyes as they came closer, as she bent down…

"Cas?"

Castiel turned, startled, to find Dean watching him some distance away. Dean was frowning. "Cas, you okay?"

Castiel swallowed, and turned his head. The hallway was empty. One of the lights hanging from the ceiling blinked angrily, and then flickered off. Castiel held his breath and watched but she had disappeared from view. Around the corner, waiting. Waiting to talk to him – about what? Castiel felt his heart flutter like a flock of frightened pigeons. He shoved the paper inside his pocket before he looked back at Dean. Dean was blinking and looking at Castiel expectantly, _what the hell_ on the tip of his tongue. Castiel opened his mouth and the words, the lies, poured out like water from a broken bottle.

"They were selling flowers, down the floor."

"What?" Dean's eyebrows shot up, frustration losing way to confusion. Castiel had no idea what made him say it, but he spat out more lies that tasted like blood on his lips. "I think I'll get some, for Sam."

"You… what?" Dean took a step forward, and Castiel took one back. A sparring match, distance between them, an invisible wall. Castiel didn't know what she had planned this time, but he would leave Dean and Sam out of it if he could help it.

"I'm thinking blue chamomile."

"You wanna buy flowers for Sam?" Dean looked like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. He believed Castiel, though. And why wouldn't he? Castiel took a few more steps back, without drawing Dean's attention to it. "Why, is it against rules?" He asked.

Dean finally settled on a laugh, but it sounded like he was choking.

"No, no. If you wanna buy blue camels and play nightingale, by all means. Sure Sammy will be bursting in happy tears."

"Chamomile." Castiel corrected him, more out of habit than anything else. Dean shrugged.

"Whatever. Here, take my card."

Castiel caught the wallet that Dean threw at him, gave him a nod and started walking to the end of the hallway. He had to breathe deep, stop himself from checking behind his shoulder and from quickening his pace, running. He thought his frail human skin must have cracks like ground during a draught, from the anxiety bursting inside of him.

He desperately wished he had been wrong, that his stretched nerves had been imagining things, but there she was – just around the corner, standing with her hands clasped in front of her. So calm, so sure, a smudge of a smile on her impassive face and nothing had changed except for the clothes. She nodded once, like the last time he'd seen her she wasn't sprawled across the table with a metal rod inside her skull. Now that he thought about it, though, he hadn't seen the black shadows of burnt wings around her. He felt a rise of panic in his stomach, an ingrained reflex.

"Hello, Castiel," Naomi said. "We need to talk."


	3. 2 But I Have Further to Fall

A/N: I just realized, I completely forgot to put in the disclaimers the last time! I must have been too excited... obviously, I don't own Supernatural. I just hope to entertain.

Also, thank you so much for the follows & favorites & review! They are all appreciated like the words _special guest star Misha Collins _on the screen... And you know that's a lot of love :) So here's chapter two!

* * *

2. But I Have Further to Fall

"You should have listened to me, Castiel." Naomi said. Castiel didn't answer because he couldn't meet Naomi's eyes without seeing the shadows of the thousand green ones that he'd watched, that he'd killed. The mind was a fragile thing – even that of an Angel. Also because what she said, it was the truth, wasn't it? That Castiel should have set aside his hatred, his _fear – _should have listened to her when she'd come to look for him, desperate. Dean had been willing to listen. Dean, but Dean hadn't been the one who had to kill and forget and still march on, hide the blood, in the name of the father who wasn't there.

Still, Castiel should have known better.

"I know." Castiel finally said when Naomi seemed to be waiting for an answer. He dropped his head. "You weren't lying."

"I've never lied to you, Castiel." Naomi said, voice soft. Castiel looked up. He saw none of her true form – just what she must have looked to the humans all this time. Her vessel was a tall woman, elegant in the way she held her body. Her face, Castiel found, was very expressive. She was looking at him with all the sorrow of a thousand years, in the silence of the desert and the moon. Castiel couldn't guess what she was thinking. It was almost as if she pitied him – for being a mindless soldier, a puppet, a tool.

"I'm sorry," Castiel said, because that was what she expected. Because he had been used against all of his brothers and sisters, a weapon.

"I know." Naomi said. She looked over Castiel's shoulder, searching. "You didn't bring Dean." It wasn't a question, but Castiel answered it anyway.

"You told me to come alone."

"Yes. Good. Dean can be," Naomi flickered her eyes, looking for a word. A word to describe Dean – Castiel knew there was no such thing, because Dean defied definition, was full of contradicting things that made him dizzy. He'd know – he'd been trying all these years. " … difficult." Naomi settled on that. Castiel nodded. It still made him shudder to remember how easy the lie had come. Just like riding a bike, Dean would have said.

_I swore I'd never lie to him again, but I did, because I don't know what you would do to him, so, _"this better me important." Castiel said, mustering up what little solemnity he had left. Naomi looked at him, maybe amused.

"Yes, it is, Castiel. It's very important. I found a way to unlock the Gate."

Naomi's words stopped him cold. Every feeling that had been sizzling inside him – annoyance, fear, anger, doubt, guilt – were washed away so quickly that it made his head spin. In their place, surprise and wonder, a breath of hope rushed in. Castiel looked at Naomi, unable to say anything. Naomi looked pleased by his reaction, nodding silently, but there was that sorrow again. Castiel suddenly realized why she had asked to see him.

"It wasn't easy, but Heaven wasn't meant to be a fortress to keep the Angels out. Our father has left a way."

"What is it? Why do you need me?" Castiel asked, fearing the answer he already knew.

"Well, according to the tablet – to lock the doors of Heaven, there has to be a final sacrifice." Naomi's lips twitched in a trace of a smile. "So, it only makes sense that there has to be one to unlock it, as well. The ultimate sacrifice."

"Does… are there…" Castiel faltered, hearing his fear confirmed.

The sacrifice. The only reason Naomi would be telling him, well, didn't she say it had been his fault? Didn't he admit it had, that he'd been the one to strip all his brothers and sisters of their home? Something cold and sharp struck him at the throat. Naomi was about to ask him something.

It wasn't just fear that he was feeling, though. He felt guilt. For leaving again, for leaving Dean but it wasn't like he could do much for Dean, anyway. A part of him – the same part that made him pick up a demon's blade that first time in the Green Room at the end of the world – whispered that _no, _that wasn't all, Dean would be – Castiel stopped there.

He also felt an acute sense of relief, and a faint hope. Because if anything – this was redemption, or something close. For all the sins he committed and all the times he came back to earth again and again, maybe it was so he could do this. Not to fix it, he could never fix it, but maybe help somebody else make it better. So many feelings, rampaging from his head to feet, that Castiel almost missed Naomi's answer.

"No, there are no rituals like before. It's simple. Gate of Heaven can reopen, for all Angels, by an Angel's Sacrifice. Only one." Naomi fixed him with a penetrating stare that was so similar to her surgical tool that Castiel flinched, intrinsic and ingrained fear fluttering. She said, then, "you have to do it, Castiel."

Castiel had thought she would ask. She didn't ask, made it a statement. It made no difference. Naomi drew in a breath, like she was preparing to give a long speech about sin, redemption, and justice. She didn't need to.

"Yes." Castiel said, suddenly devoid of feelings. They seemed to have left him as quickly as they had come.

"Excuse me?" Naomi asked.

"Yes, I'll do it."

_I serve Heaven, I don't serve man – and I certainly don't serve _you.

Castiel heard his voice from a lifetime ago, and wondered if he'd been wrong. Wondered why Naomi was still looking at him like Castiel was a tragedy, amusing and pitiful. Castiel cleared his throat before his feelings could return.

"What do I do, then? Do I have to… do it with an Angel Blade?"

"No," Naomi said slowly, drawing out the words. Then she said, "I am not asking you to kill yourself, Castiel."

Castiel wanted to ask her what she meant. Sacrifice, she'd said, and Castiel was ready for it. Borrowed time, as humans would say. It seemed like a small price to pay.

And maybe that was the point. It was too small a price. Castiel frowned, a ghost of a thought dancing near the edge of his mind. He thought of something, he just didn't know what it was. Naomi opened her mouth, maybe to explain, but an alarmed look crossed her face. She blinked and went still like she was feeling for the first raindrops. Then she looked up at Castiel.

"Someone's coming. I can't stay." Naomi said, words stumbling out fast.

"Wait!" Castiel stepped forward. He grabbed Naomi's sleeve before he realized what he was doing. "You have to tell me what you mean. What do you want me to do?"

"Castiel, I…"

Castiel just looked at her, fixing her with an unblinking gaze. He didn't let go and she didn't make him. Castiel wondered, briefly, how he must look to her now. A human wearing a mask of an Angel, holding down what couldn't be held down, a pathetic…

Then, with a drop of the world around him, Castiel realized something. He felt his hand fall, lifeless.

"Naomi, I can't."

"Castiel, it's your…" Naomi looked irritated, and she kept checking over Castiel's shoulder like she was waiting for a bomb to go off. Castiel cut her off with the realization he'd just had.

"I can't, because I'm not an Angel. He took my grace. I'm… human."

He said it, the word Dean won't say. It didn't make him feel anything. Naomi widened her eyes like it was the last thing she'd expected him to say.

"No," Naomi said, with a quick intake of a breath, another nervous glance. "No, Castiel. That was Metatron's mistake. He thought you wouldn't be, but you are. You lost your abilities, but it doesn't change who you are."

For once, Castiel found himself staring at Naomi, wanting to believe – wanting so badly. The words slid like honey over his ears. Naomi, for once, wasn't looking at Castiel like he was dead already. She looked sincere.

"Our father made us different. Before he made any of the humans. You were born an Angel, Castiel, and nothing is going to change that. Metatron knew you were the only one who could break the lock, but he didn't…"

"What?" Castiel cut the steady flow of Naomi's words. Naomi just looked at him. A second, a two, and she sighed.

"You're the only one who can make the Sacrifice."

With that, the wind rustled and displaced the air, one second she was there but then a blink later, only empty space. Castiel couldn't see her wings. It just looked like she blinked out of existence.

Castiel wondered what it meant. He was nothing special. Not powerful like the Archangels, not loyal like thousands of his brothers. Not smart enough to outrun the King of Hell. Not brave enough to listen when it counted. Why did she say – why was he the only one? Castiel blinked, tried to think of something that he had, that other Angles didn't. He tried to imagine what his Father would have…

"Cas?"

Castiel turned before he was aware of anything else. It was an instinctive reaction. That ridiculous name Dean had given him – as if the one second it took to add _tiel _was too cumbersome for him. At first Castiel had thought it disrespectful. Then he'd grown to like it, the way they said _Cas _like he meant something. Then Dean told him he was family, the way Samuel was Sam and Robert was Bobby – Castiel had become Cas.

Castiel turned and the answer was staring back at him. The one thing he had, that other Angels didn't. The one thing that would be a Sacrifice.

"I thought you were going to…" Dean made a face, a ridiculously distorted one that he sometimes made when trying to convey his dismay, and Castiel had to fight through the rock in his chest to breathe out. Air tumbled out violently like it was marching into battle.

Dean took a step forward when Castiel didn't answer – _Cas, what's wrong? – _and Castiel took a step back.

For the first time, Castiel wished he'd never met Dean's soul in those darkest pits of Hell. That he'd never appeared to him in that abandoned warehouse, that he'd never laid eyes on him. That he'd go back to being a soldier, a proud and faithful warrior of God. Because for all the brilliant colors the last few years had dropped in the palette of black and gray, he'd give it all up if he didn't have to face this. Because for all his brothers and sisters, lost homes and pain raining on them like God's wrath, this was the one thing he couldn't do.

One day, some day, an Angel will Fall for a man. Love them as you love me, God had said, and one day you will. You will Fall, you will believe again. And the man who made you live again, and again – he will be the last Sacrifice. He will be the only Sacrifice that will matter. Because he made an Angel question his faith, made him believe again, made him kill and cry and love.

_ I have to kill Dean. _

The thought hit him like a mountain and he stumbled, he fell, fell deeper and deeper. Castiel looked up and she was standing there behind Dean. When he thought it again, slowly, knife slicing his skin, Naomi nodded. _Yes. Dean is the Final Sacrifice. _

"No," Castiel murmured, blinked, she was gone.

"Cas?" Dean had his eyebrows furrowed now. He glanced behind his back to nothing, made to grab Castiel's arm.

"I'm fine."

Castiel heard his voice speak, distantly. He saw Dean tug at his coat but didn't feel it.

_Come on, Sam doesn't need flowers,_ Dean was saying. Castiel heard it but all he could think to say was No, _no, no, _so he said nothing at all.

* * *

Castiel told Dean he was fine. Just dizzy from dehydration – he'd forgotten to drink, new at being human and all. Dean raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything. He was suspicious, but after a long and tired look – like everything about Dean was these days, worn at the edges – he let it go. "Alright," Dean said. It sounded like tentative trust and came down like a guillotine. Castiel didn't meet Dean's eyes.

Naomi appeared to him as he turned a corner, two floors down, into an empty corridor smelling uniformly like chloroform.

"I can't." Castiel said as soon as he saw her face. Naomi furrowed her brows but didn't look surprised. She breathed in, preparing a speech. Castiel had experience with those – what her eyes could convey, because she'd always been so sincere. She'd always told the truth even as she ordered him to drench himself in lies. Naomi, she had always believed in what she said and that made everything worse. Especially when Castiel knew what she was going to say, also that he was going to agree. On everything except for one.

He didn't want to hear it.

"I'm not killing Dean." Castiel hissed before Naomi could get anything out. She shushed him with an annoyed look. A young nurse was walking down the length of the corridor. Castiel took a breath, Naomi glared at him and they waited in silence as the nurse walked past. She gave Castiel an odd look, quickened her pace. Didn't spare a glance at Naomi in her inconspicuous nurse uniform.

As soon as she disappeared into the elevator, Castiel opened his mouth to let the heat out but Naomi was quicker this time.

"You have to, Castiel It's one human and all Angels. One human, and we can all go home."

_It's not just a human. It's, _

Castiel wanted to yell, but she wouldn't understand. She wouldn't understand why a human off the street would be any different from Sam or Dean. They were just humans to her, expendable. But wasn't that why Castiel was the _only one_? Because he was the only one who understood. Now he finally understood why Metatron chose _him_, cut out _his _grace but it didn't make him feel any better. Castiel wanted to find Father now, more than ever. Find him and demand an answer. For all the work, for all the hope that one day an Angel might look upon a man as he will Him, and then to be a Sacrifice. Why?

Now he really did feel a burn in his throat, a desperate thirst in the middle of a desert, as he watched Naomi speak without actually listening to her.

"It's fair, it's more than fair. You're failed us more than once already, Castiel. You've massacred – "

_Stop_, Castiel said weakly. It never made it past his lips. He was aware of all his sins, of course he was. Yet for all the things he'd done, the blood he'd spilled – for the only chance at redemption of his corrupted being, he could never bring himself to do it. He would rather leave himself forever contaminated in this endless pit. It wasn't a calculation, that a Man's life was worth more than a home of an entire host of Angels. Not rational. Not logical. He was done with logical. It was simple – Castiel closed his eyes.

It was just that he couldn't.

He realized that Naomi had stopped speaking. Maybe she had asked him something.

"I can't." There was only one answer anyway, whatever the question had been. A short silence followed his words, hollow as a newborn world. His soul, now that he had one, sunk a little bit lower. Got a little bit darker. And then.

"Well, then I'll just have to teach you again." Naomi's voice pierced deep into his skull. When Castiel opened his eyes, the corridor was empty again.

* * *

_Run, run away from me._

_ Castiel yells, with his eyes. Always night in this room. Metallic walls with their sleek smell of death, metallic taste of blood in his mouth. Splatters, pleads, dies. Again and again and again. It is so familiar. _

_ The silhouette, tense and cautious but so pathetic, even the long shotgun balanced on his arms. Because it isn't enough. Shadows dance by the invisible light and a drop of water dives into the ground somewhere, making him jump. Castiel watches the silhouette. One foot after another, ever so cautious. Ever so fearless. Not enough. When he suddenly appears by his side – not enough. Castiel watches, yells, stays silent. Break, and those green stare back at him with such ferocity it makes him angry. It has always made him angry that he can't see fear in them. Even as they say, Cas, please, no – not fear. In a violent flame of practiced anger Castiel twists and hears the joints grind and scream – that scream. Ten thousand screams he's heard, ten thousand times he's died. Ten thousand and one, he's killed. It takes just one drop to spill the blood in the bucket. _

_ Castiel raises his arm. There is a blade in his hand, and he knows exactly what to do as he stares down at the man in front of him, shivering in pathetic agony, pain so great he can't even speak. Can't even make a sound to plead, but there is no fear. Castiel thinks, again, that he doesn't understand. He wants to make him afraid. Lights explode, world sinks into darkness. Wind rustles and knocks out a breath, except his own, the air shudders with his voice and the universe bows to his Will. Except, except this man has never been afraid. Angry, resentful, confused, frustrated, bewildered, but never afraid. _

_ It's so familiar that Castiel almost misses his arm swinging down to deliver death, to draw blood, to poison his soul. The tip of the blade grazes the skin on the man's neck and he finally makes a sound, a choke or a cry, enough to make Castiel pause. _

_ He is grabbing Castiel's arm. His right arm is broken into tiny little pieces. It lies lifeless on the floor, in a distorted angle that should not be possible. His left arm, though, it grabs Castiel and if anything, the grip becomes tighter. Not to push him away, because he does not fear, he only mourns. _

_ Castiel sees sadness in the unending depth of green. _

_ "Cas," he speaks. Castiel pauses, doesn't breathe, frozen in a brutal overload because ten thousand trials, this has never happened before. The blade still hangs on the skin of his neck. Drops of blood hang on it as he keeps breathing, pained, slow, but alive. Castiel draws the blade back a little without thinking. He doesn't like to see blood. After an eternity, he is still not used to it. A fraction becomes a gap, becomes a breath. Becomes horror as he – he remembers the next words. _

_ "I know you're in there." The man chokes. Castiel blinks. _

_ "We're family. We need you." His grip becomes tighter, becomes desperate, and blood rolls from his face. From his eyes, takes a form of crystallized pain. Castiel doesn't move because he knows, he knows the next part and before he knows it he is speaking. Stealing the line, completing the memory. _

_ "I need you." Castiel says. Something breaks. "Run away from me." This time, the words make it past his lips and Castiel lets go of him. He – Dean – falls down and something crunches. Castiel reaches out to heal him but remembers that he is not an Angel anymore. His hand hangs useless in the air, in an empty room, the Blade gone – Dean gone. _

_ "Well, that was disappointing." Naomi says. Castiel finds himself in the room again, the white room that smells of death, death of a soul he does not have. _

_ "I'm dreaming." Castiel suddenly realizes._ _A sharp relief splashes over him. It wasn't real, Dean wasn't there. _

_ "How else could I reach you?" Naomi sighs. She gets up from her desk, makes her away around to Castiel and he steps away. He wishes he would wake up, if he just knew how to do that. _

_ "I'm not killing Dean, Naomi. You can't make me." Castiel grates, stepping back and hitting the chair. Naomi doesn't come any closer. Her face changes then – from frustration to something else. Curiosity, almost, like a scholar facing a particularly challenging hypothesis. _

_ "Well, then." Naomi says. Castiel doesn't like the lightness of her tone. It makes him nauseous with deep-rooted fear – drilled between his eyes with a metal gimlet. "We'll start small. Work our way up to it. But don't worry, Castiel. We'll get there." _

_ Castiel feels his heart fold in half. He wants to say, _that will never happen, _but he doesn't know if that's true. Opens his mouth and air comes out. Naomi smiles. She wants to say something. She's so sure of her victory, is almost excited by the new challenge. She opens her mouth –_

* * *

"Cas – Cas!"

Castiel felt his body shake. His eyes flew open, took in the mushy white in front of him. Bed sheet. His head danced in the edges of dream and reality. For a second the white became the room, the suffocation, and then the bed again. A hand shook him, a little gentler this time. Castiel raised his head, then his upper body, from where it lay sprawled on a bed – Sam's bed. Castiel distantly remembered sitting by Sam's bed, head exploding with all the words he couldn't say and he must have fallen asleep at some point. The flowers that Castiel had bought stared back at his face, solemn. They didn't have blue chamomile, after all. Castiel grabbed the first blue flower he spotted, paid with Dean's card and almost forgot it at the counter. Had to go back halfway up the stairs – because he was not taking an elevator. If Naomi showed up, he wanted to have somewhere to run to. Pointless, he knew, but it was better than trying to run out of a moving elevator and crashing the whole thing to the ground. Then Castiel, a former Angel of the Lord, would have died in a burning heap of metal in the base of a hospital building.

Castiel remembered coming back to the room, murmuring something about blue, Sam's eyes should have been blue, and plucking the whole thing in the empty vase next to Sam's bed. Dean had hesitated, asked what the flower was in his gruffest voice and Castiel had found that he didn't know. He'd forgotten. And honestly, that should have scared him more than it did, but Dean had shrugged and let it go so Castiel had just sank down in an empty chair next to Dean. He'd watched Sam breathe in and out, peaceful even behind the blue and purple festival of colors on his face. He'd listened to the clock and tried to count the seconds. He didn't remember how far he'd gone before he passed out.

"Dean." Castiel murmured, as an answer. The hand pulled away, leaving him a little light-headed from the shaking. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, spotting tiny purple and red swirls in his vision.

"You okay?" Dean asked for the fourth, a hundredth time that day. Castiel forced his eyes to look at Dean squarely. His back screamed as the muscles suddenly jerked awake, and he had to suppress another scream from bursting out. Because, no, he was not okay and he was opening his mouth but instead of a scream – a lie came tickling out like a well-practiced decanting of wine, blood red.

* * *

"I had a nightmare. About… about my brothers and sisters. Falling." Castiel added the last word almost like an afterthought. Dean wanted to say something but had no idea what he could say. What did Falling feel like to an Angel, anyway? To those who could always fly? Maybe if Dean lost his arms and weren't able to drive the Impala anymore… Dean stopped his thought there. It was too sick, even as a speculation. He shook his head slowly, wondering what to say.

"I'm sorry, Cas." Dean murmured, feeling ridiculous. For a moment Cas looked at him like he wanted to ask, _why are you sorry, _because that was something Castiel would say,but silence reigned on. Eventually Dean had to look away first. Sam, lying pale and all faded colors, a peaceful expression on his face. His hair had grown longer in the past few months. What with the trials and all, Sam had just let it grow out of control. Not that he would have gotten a haircut even if all the monsters had taken a break for a year, but still. Sometimes Dean had the urge to just reach out with Ruby's knife and cut the locks out himself. He was sure the damn thing would just grow back instantly if he did it with a normal pair of scissors. Maybe when Sam was asleep. In fact,

"Maybe I should cut it out." Dean said, felt Castiel startle beside him. He realized he must have sounded completely out-of-blue, and maybe faintly murderous. He couldn't bring himself to care.

"What?" Cas choked out. He was definitely more edgy today. Dean glanced at him sideways, and piled that to the things that needed to be thought about. Then promptly pushed the whole mountain away out of sight.

"Sam's hair," he explained instead. "Look at that hair. It's ridiculous. Maybe if I just…"

"I don't think it's a good idea, Dean." Cas sighed. Dean noted that he sounded relieved. Dean resisted the urge to ask him _are you okay_, because seriously. That was not getting them anywhere. Instead he carefully slid a mock-indignation onto his face.

"Why not? Maybe he'll wake up if his hair was threatened. Or he won't… but he'd still have a half-decent head."

"Sam will be angry." Cas said, and because it was true, and because it was Cas who said it, Dean let out a chuckle. Cas looked suspicious at his humorless humor but didn't say anything. It was becoming a thing with them now. Either one of them would be doing something strange and the other one just, not saying anything, pretending not to notice. The whole thing was like a play. Dean asks Cas, what's the name of the flower? Cas, I don't remember. Dean shrugs and doesn't care.

Except he did. He didn't really care if the blue thing was a rose or a sunflower or whatever, just that Castiel should know. He shouldn't be forgetting things. It was freaking him out, which was why he wasn't going to think about it.

Dean scratched the back of his neck and thought about what he was going to do. A million things came screaming to his mind. They screamed and demanded his attention, like friggin' pre-school kids, voice lapping over each other and tearing Dean's ears like salt to a demon. Dean kicked them all to the side. Faces of Sam and Cas and Kevin and the Angels, Demons, Crowley. Not to mention the people in the entire planet, and the supernatural cockroaches that still lurked and waited to spill blood from those people. Or suck out the soul, devour the intestine, whatever. Dean pushed them all aside because he couldn't think about them all right now and he had no idea what came first, second, third. If he had a million brains he'd just assign them one problem each.

He didn't find breathing room in the tight place he'd cleared out in his head, but found something else far more imminent than all the problems of Heaven and Hell.

Dean saw Cas stifle a yawn furiously, like he didn't know what to do with it, and it made him laugh. Yawning was contagious, though, and his laughter got swallowed by the huge yawn that spilled out of him.

"You know what," Dean said lazily, following the steep fall of the yawn. "We won't do Sam any good if we just sit here and watch him sleep. Or get him flowers." Dean added, and Cas glared at him. How he'd missed that glare. Dean chuckled lightly.

"I say we go back to the Batcave, get some rest and… and figure out what to do. Maybe do some research or something." Dean finished, hoping he made more sense than he felt. Cas looked at Sam, then at Dean, and nodded slowly. A sudden wave of haggard exhaustion washed over his features, and made him look all of his years. However many that was. Yeah, they definitely needed to clear their heads. Maybe all of this wouldn't look so daunting in the morning. Maybe he'd know exactly what to do first, then second, when the sun splattered gold again and maybe Sam wouldn't look so pale in the promise of daylight. Dean pushed himself up, hearing bones creak, and shook off the pins and needles. Cas followed and it was strange to see him so clumsy, almost knocking over the chair in his haste and wrapping himself in a cocoon of cords attached to the machine.

"Whoa, easy there." Dean murmured, holding out one hand to steady Cas and the other to keep the machine from rolling away. Fortunately nothing was pulled. It still beeped cheerfully in steady rhythm, because no matter what the doctors said, nothing was wrong with Sam's heart. Dean pushed the thing gently back to its position, helped Castiel step over the complicated veins of hospital cords and fallen needles, felt too tired to laugh when Cas bumped into the door on the way out. He just asked, _you okay _and realized only too late that he'd decided not to ask that anymore. Cas said _I'm fine_. Yeah.

* * *

Barely a word was exchanged on the way back to the bunker, or the _Batcave _as Dean had called it. Dean was tired and Castiel was preoccupied. He was wondering how long he would be able to resist. He wanted to say forever, but humans were fragile. It took Dean thirty years in Hell to break. It might take three for Castiel to crack like a porcelain doll. Three years, three months, three days.

Dean had rolled the windows down and the wind from the motion dashed by them. It wasn't fierce, warm and a little wet like the summer that was coming. The road was mostly empty but for a few cars that passed in a blur and occasional red and yellow lights from the buildings at the side. The inside of the Impala was dark, almost black, and Castiel couldn't see the creases in Dean's expressions like before so he chose to look out the window instead. He watched as a neon sign spelling _BAR _whirred past. Wondered what drinking would feel like now, in this frail human form. He didn't know how much this body could hold down, but guessed that drinking the liquor store was probably not a good idea. Except it really seemed like it was. If all the liquid in his body turned to alcohol, maybe he could drown the dreams in it. Maybe he could manage to turn the tip of the blade toward his own body if he was drunk enough, push it down and slice, let the blood slosh if he was fast enough that Naomi couldn't stop him.

"Cas," Dean broke the silence. His voice was rough, gravellier than usual, like smashed pieces of rocks.

"Dean," Castiel answered without turning his head. His eyes were trailing the afterimage of the bright red _BAR _sign. "If you ask me if I'm okay again, I'll…" Castiel wasn't sure what he would do, probably say he was fine again, so he let the sentence hang. Dean chuckled.

"No, I wasn't gonna ask you. You'd say you were fine anyway."

Castiel didn't answer, wondering if this game of theirs would ever end. Chasing tails, flickering afterimages of a liquor store.

"What were you going to ask me?" Castiel asked when Dean didn't continue. He felt like Dean was hesitating in the driver's seat, just a little strain in his eyes and a line in his mouth, but he didn't turn his head to check. Trees blurred past, darker smudges in the dark night.

"I dunno if this is a good idea," Dean muttered darkly. It went well with the looming trees and the hidden moon, the sultry wind. Dean continued. "But I was gonna ask… you wanna have a beer?"

Castiel turned his head then. Dean was looking at him, not at the road. It looked like his hands had eyes on their own, holding easily onto the steering wheel and twisting, guiding the car in just the right way. Castiel wondered how that could be.

"'Cause I could kill for a beer right now." Dean added when Castiel still didn't say anything. "And I thought I'd buy some, but then I didn't know if you wanted… if it's okay, to, you know."

"Strange," Castiel said, finally, facing Dean and not blinking. "It's like you read my mind."

"Well, I do that." Dean let out a chuckle, relieved. The car slid smoothly to a stop in front of a shabby building, not a _BAR _but a small store of some kind.

"Wait here," Dean said and got out of the car. The Impala shook a little when the door slammed. Castiel waited, followed Dean with his eyes and wondered how much alcohol it would take for him to forget.

* * *

It turned out it really didn't take much, and Castiel couldn't decide whether to be disappointed or glad by it. First sip, a shockingly vivid taste on his tongue that was barley and autumn and oblivion. Castiel hadn't really appreciated the taste of alcohol before. Just the trance that came with. Even that had taken more than a few bottles of whiskey to feel. Now, though. Castiel sat across from Dean in the main study room of the bunker, sipping beer from the bottle Dean had tossed him. Dean was sitting back with his feet up on the table. He had a distant look about him. He was drinking the golden liquid like it was the air he breathed.

Third sip, Castiel wondered if he would have to lie all the time now. Now that he was human, now that barley tasted like bitter bliss. Fourth, closely followed by fifth. The liquid splashed in the half-empty bottle. He wondered why he'd lied, then. Why not tell Dean everything?

Castiel shifted a little in his seat. His limbs were all bent at awkward angles. Eventually he ended up in the same position as Dean, both feet on the edge of the table and crossed at the ankles. Distorting the human body felt oddly satisfying, a relief in the muscles in his back – even though he knew it would just mess them up more later. Dean glanced at him and his eyes wavered like he was remembering something but then the bottle reached his lips again, almost automatic now, and the expression settled and got whiffed away with the smell of alcohol. He went back to staring at the air in front of him. Castiel brought his own bottle to his lips and noticed that his hand was decidedly less steady than a minute ago. He stared at the minute shake, shrugged. Seventh, no, was it eighth?

Why had he lied?

He imagined the conversation that they didn't have. Dean would ask him, _you okay, Cas, _and Castiel would say, in this version he wouldn't lie, he would say no. Look Dean straight in the eyes and tell him the truth. Naomi came to see me, Dean. She told me I have to kill you…

_Why? _Even in his imagination, Dean's face was so ridiculously distorted that Castiel had to stifle a laughter. He was feeling a little light-headed now, like he was looking at his own life through a broken pair of glasses. Hadn't realized that his feet were bobbing up and down, up and down. Stopped when he saw what he was doing. He stared at Jimmy's dress shoes and tried to remember what he'd been talking, thinking about. It was hard to keep track of his thoughts. Or the number of sips he'd taken. One melted into another so quickly and before he knew his bottle was mysteriously full again.

Why? Because, because you're the Sacrifice. Because we lost our home and I am the only one who can unlock the door. Because I Fell but I'm still an Angel. Still an Angel, isn't that funny? What kind of an Angel gets drunk after a bottle of beer? Or was it two? Castiel knew why he'd lied to Dean.

Another bottle and he found Dean looking at him. Wordless, but Castiel read the question behind the stare.

"What… what kind of question is that?" Castiel muttered, voice lower even than usual, vowels and consonants sliding into and over each other. It was funny to hear his own voice so messed up, he almost laughed aloud.

"I didn't say anything." Dean said, and to Castiel's frustration, his voice was level and calm, normal. Castiel tried counting the bottles they had emptied together, gave up after three.

"Well, you, you were going to." Castiel said. Then added, because some things he heard even when Dean didn't speak them, "I'm okay."

"Okay." Dean said. "Good. Super. But I think it's time to… yeah, okay."

Before he knew, Dean's arms were holding him up. Castiel didn't remember getting up but he must have tried. Vertical, he decided he didn't like vertical so much. The bunker and Sam's books did a dance and his eyes couldn't catch up. He wondered if this was being drunk, that it was not as glorious as he'd thought. Didn't feel so great.

But he had to say, had to say what he had to say. He tried grabbing Dean's forearm and almost fell over, then realized he was already holding on tight to Dean's green jacket. The world moved too fast around him. He looked at Dean. Dean was still, an unmoving point in the middle of a boiling world.

"Don't…" Castiel started but it came out choked.

"What?" Dean frowned, leaning in a little to hear better. He gave up trying to get Castiel to stand, just held him up in a vertical position. Then he was struggling to adjust his hold, to help or drag Castiel to a bed, and Castiel was stumbling over his own tongue.

"Don't, say yes." Castiel finally got the words out, a little more clearly this time. Sway, then Dean – a strain in his voice. Castiel would really stand up on his own if he could.

"Say yes to what? What're you talking about? Man, this was a bad idea…"

"To the Angel. Dean." Castiel drawled on. Dean paused, and Castiel slipped a little. It was like his legs were suddenly liquid, turned into the beer he'd drunk.

"Who, Michael? Seriously, Cas. Apocalypse is over. Well," Dean paused. "The first one, anyway."

Castiel didn't tell Dean that it was not Michael. Wasn't really a lie, when you weren't even speaking, he told himself.

Dean half-dragged, half-carried Castiel to what he assumed was a spare room in the bunker. Castiel tried his best to keep up the pace, but he kept going the wrong way. Each time Dean was dragging him back, and each time he felt his legs grow weaker.

Castiel thought it again, _don't say yes, _because now he couldn't follow Dean and slam him into the alley, slam some sense into him. Couldn't stop him, couldn't protect him. Castiel sometimes liked to imagine himself as some kind of a Dean-expert but knew that wasn't true. He didn't know Dean, not really, even after all those thousand hours of watching him. He didn't know when and why Dean had decided to yell yes to Michael those years ago. The look on his face had been dead, that had been the end of the world itself. He didn't know why. He wouldn't know if Dean decides to sacrifice himself this time and he would, Dean would find a way to make Castiel do it. Break the already broken pieces of him. This time Castiel wouldn't be able to do anything. Dean already had that look. The same, but older, more tired and that was why Castiel couldn't tell him.

He thought all this as he fell face-first onto the mattress that smelled of dust and soap at the same time. Dean was saying something but sleep was already squatting on his limbs and Castiel drifted, fell fast. He thought that maybe humans lied all the time because they were afraid. Because right now he was – afraid.


	4. 3 Puzzle Pieces, Broken Mirror

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* * *

3. Puzzle Pieces, Broken Mirror

Castiel woke up next morning suddenly like he had been called. His first thought was that Naomi hadn't visited him last night. He lay there, blinking and staring at the rumpled bed sheet in front of his eyes. It was too close, all blurry and spinning but that could just have been his eyes. He'd been drunk last night. From what he'd heard from Sam and Dean, he knew how waking up the next morning went. So Castiel lay still, postponing the moment. He noted that his coat and shoes were off, but he was face-first and sprawled exactly as he'd fallen last night. He tried to remember what he'd dreamt about. Something about Egypt 1400 B.C., the sun raining down in flames and then melting into the river, Michael wearing Sam's face and Lucifer wearing Bobby's. The rest slipped away fast. Castiel wondered if humans had dreams this odd all the time, or if it was just him, drunk. Maybe that was why Naomi hadn't come. She must have smelled the deep stench of alcohol in his messy head. As far as he could tell, that would be the only good thing about being drunk. He'd watched Dean drink himself to sleep many times, when memories haunted him and family disappointed him. Castiel didn't know why he did it when it looked like Dean didn't even get drunk anymore. But who knows with Dean. He might just like the numbing bitterness on his tongue.

It was time to face it. Castiel took a deep breath, air scratching at his dry throat and nose, and tried sitting up slowly. As an Angel he'd gotten a mild headache. As a human, he got a feeling, that made him think of death and abandoned gutters flowing with broken bottles. _Drown me in the Nile, _he thought. He felt like he was being stung by the thousand suns that reflected on the longest river on earth.

Castiel finally managed to sit up. He lifted his hand to scratch at his hair, which was sticking up and sticking to his face and itching like mites were gnawing under it. His fingers hit something foreign stuck to the back of his head. He grabbed it and brought it to his face. It was a yellow square paper with a sticky band at the back, and had Dean's all-capital, blocky handwriting scrawled on it. Castiel had to close his eyes for a moment before the world stopped shaking long enough for him to read it.

_Goin' out, won't be long. Water and food in the kitchen. Left some clothes, take a shower!_

The last part was underlined three times. Castiel stared darkly at the pile of fabric on the bed next to him that he now recognized as a new set of clothing. He lifted through them with his fingers. The jeans and the black shirt would fit him, but the washed-out brown hooded sweater looked much too big. Must be Sam's. Now that he was reminded, though, the room and especially himself smelled downright offensive. Jimmy's black suit jacket was rumpled beyond saving, and sticky in places where beer had been spilled without Castiel noticing. Castiel grumbled, swung his leg over the bed and almost fell flat on his face.

It took some trials and a lot more errors but Castiel managed to clean himself, change into the new clothes and even take the food out of the fridge. There wasn't much in the fridge. In the middle shelf sat a white plate with a precariously constructed burger on top. Castiel sat down, only an empty room and a messy table breathing with him. The bunker was eerily quiet without anyone else, without the noises he'd always been able to hear before. Drops of water from a loose tap, busy footsteps of ants under the sink, wind as it rubbed against the window. Now all he heard beside himself was a distant sound of a clock somewhere, and even that faded into the background when he didn't concentrate. Castiel assumed it was day but couldn't be sure. The bread of the sandwich was roughly round, with lots of jagged edges. It was cold because Castiel didn't know how to heat it. The cheese was flat and there was very small amount of lettuce. Castiel still thought it tasted something like heaven. Something like home.

Dean wasn't back even after he finished everything Dean told him to do. Castiel made the bed. He picked up the discarded pieces of clothing – Jimmy's suit and the trench coat that Dean had kept – but didn't know what to do with them, ended up just folding them up neatly. He wandered back into the main room, stood in the middle with nothing to do. After a minute, he couldn't stand the purposeless void anymore. Castiel wondered if it was a human trait, the constant boredom. It made sense only because human lives were so short. They would feel like they'd have to make every moment count. It was one of the things that Castiel only truly understood after becoming a human himself.

Castiel first tried leafing through some books, presumably Sam's, but his eyes kept glazing over them. It was frustrating that the meaning wouldn't just enter his thoughts anymore. He had to process the words and make sense of them manually. Castiel closed the book and sat for a minute. His eyes fell on the table in front of him. Compulsively, he started organizing the stuff on the big table. He picked up books from the floor and when the table was clean he went to the kitchen. He washed the dishes gathering fruitflies in the sink. Remembered the short time he'd spent with Daphne, thinking he was human and that God had plans for him like she'd told him. He'd believed it then. He wasn't sure anymore. If his Father had had a plan, then either it'd gone terribly wrong or it had just been a terrible plan from the beginning.

A brush and a dustpan were crammed into a corner of the kitchen, obviously neglected for so long, and Castiel picked them up. Cloud of dirt exploded from beneath them. When he was done sweeping the place, he was sore all over so he went to sit at the table. He noticed that the top of the table had some unrecognizable stains and handprints and a lot of dust, so he went back for a rag. He remembered how Daphne used to do these things, and wet it carefully and squeezed it tight. Castiel was tentative and clumsy with everything. He had to concentrate on every step, had to figure out the best way to wipe the table or wash the soap off the dishes. He found the whole thing rather soothing. A continuous work of the body to distract the mind.

When he'd finally done everything he could, he sat down at the clean table and Dean still wasn't back. Castiel figured he could wait then, like he used to do. Only humans had not been made to wait. He absently wiped at the wooden hand mirror lying on the table with a paper towel, until the surface shined like the first light God had made and he couldn't bear the look of Jimmy's face staring sadly back at him. He had always meant to give it back but now he'd stolen it.

Castiel found his thoughts drifting, his body was heavy with the sudden physical work, and soon his mind was floating through a void, cracks in his mind. A nurse became Naomi became Dean's voice and Sam had blue eyes, flowers were red and they were dripping blood. Castiel realized he was falling asleep but didn't know how to wake himself. Helplessly, he felt his eyelids flutter, drop, fall.

* * *

_Naomi is waiting for him. They are in the middle of a city that Castiel doesn't recognize. It is so different from the usual setting, the bare metallic room, that Castiel is disoriented. He almost thinks this is just another dream when he spots Naomi in the crowd. She is wearing the dark-colored suit he knows well. Castiel watches in dread as she weaves her way through the oblivious crowd. Castiel stands under the eave of a tall office building. Naomi walks across to him on the busy sidewalk. People are rushing past like endless streams of water. Castiel stands still in the middle like a small rock imbedded in the soil, water sweeping over it. Men with their briefcases, women in their black high heels and teenagers with earphones in their ears. Everybody has somewhere to go, Castiel stands still, and Naomi comes to him. Nobody bumps into her because it is her dream. They just move out of the way at the last minute. _

_Naomi greets him with a nod. There is a wide road behind her, and a dense cluster of skyscrapers. Cars grumble and pollute the air gray. A young woman is tasting a brand of pasta on the huge advertisement board on the biggest building. It is a bank, or a hotel, or maybe both. The road is busy but the traffic isn't stuck and cars move fast. They are black, grey, red, blue blurs speeding their ways to wherever they need to go. Castiel feels dizzy from the people, from the cars, from the city. He doesn't understand why Naomi has brought him here. So he asks. "Why are we here?"_

"_I told you." Naomi says, amused. She is enjoying her new challenge. A light smile hangs from her lips. Her eyes sparkle with the joy that is loosely covered by a thin mask of professionalism. They are clear blue, Castiel notices. Her eyes. She gestures with her hands to the city behind her. _

"_Do you like it?"_

"_Why did you bring me here?" Castiel asks again, because she hasn't answered it. Naomi half-watches Castiel, the other half busy admiring her handiwork. _Every human, a puzzle piece, exactly in their places, _she mutters._

"_You couldn't kill Dean. I told you we need to start small." _

"_What does that mean?" Castiel frowns. He finds he doesn't like Naomi's lips curling into a smile. It brings a deep sense of unease and fear into the creases in his forehead._

"_Ah, well, there is the last piece of the puzzle, of course." Naomi says. Before Castiel can ask her the same question again, because he always seems to be repeating himself these days, Naomi turns her body and looks at something, expecting Castiel to follow. Castiel resists for a few seconds, but he looks in the end. He follows Naomi's gaze. _

_A figure is standing on the edge of the sidewalk. He is looking across at the buildings on the other side, then looking at a paper in his hand. All crumpled, careless handwriting on the back of a receipt. The man is standing so near the edge that a strong wind might knock him down, send him onto the hectic road. The cars would flatten him in a minute. His bones would crack and then be grinded. Blood would draw erratic circles on the road. Castiel knows who he is. _

_He's always been quick to catch up to things, despite what Dean tells him, often with weary amusement and a mask of frustration. Sure, he might not understand the purpose of high heels when they obviously bring so much pain, but this – what Naomi is about to say, he understands this. What he is about to do, although he will resist until he wastes out._

"_Now, I understand that it is hard for you to pick up a blade and kill him." Naomi says reasonably, like she is discussing a particularly difficult school task with a particularly slow student. Castiel just stares at her. She continues, still in that kind tone. _

"_So I made it easier for you. He's already standing so close to the edge. All you have to do is push, just a little push."_

"_Standing so close to the edge?" Castiel repeats without really thinking about it. Somehow the entire scene in front of him shifts in his eyes, although Naomi hasn't altered anything and it is still a busy city. Castiel sees an edge of a cliff that Dean is standing on. The half of his right foot is already in the air. Pieces of rocks fall to the endless height beneath. Already standing so close to the edge. Dean is still squinting at the paper in his hand, then at the buildings across. Trying to figure out which is the one written on it, perhaps. Castiel blinks and the cliff is the sidewalk again. The devouring greens of the trees become the red light of the traffic light. Another blink, and they are suddenly right behind Dean._

"_He's going to fall anyway. Let the cars do the work for you." Naomi says, kindly. Castiel thinks she would be one of those teachers who have good intentions, ends up ruining a student's life forever._

"_I can't." Castiel answers stubbornly. "My answer is never going to change."_

"_You won't?" Naomi asks, a first hint of impatience drawing over her features. _

"_I can't." Castiel repeats. He looks at Dean's back. _

"_There's no such thing. You can do anything. You just won't." Naomi says. Dean does not seem to hear the exchange behind him. He keeps looking at the paper, then ahead, like a doll in a human museum. _

"_He won't even know what hit him. You won't even be visible." She coaxes. Castiel remembers it used to be just like this, a long time ago. The firsts. The first Deans had been passive, immobile, and Castiel had been invisible. Then slowly Dean began to move and talk and flinch at the sound of wings. The Deans began to resemble the real Dean and Castiel began to be visible again. The last one, Castiel was fully visible and Dean was like Dean. Castiel had watched the familiarity of the puppet's movement. He'd walked right up to him and killed him even while the fake Dean pleaded and clung to his coat. _

"_Do you have to make this difficult?" Naomi says. Castiel knows what comes next but he can't prepare for it. He can never prepare for it._

_A pain, so intense, so acute. Right between the nose and the right eye. He feels blood rolling down like tears. Feels himself fall to his knees but no sounds comes out. The pain is so real it is almost ethereal. It stops everything and everything stops to matter. Castiel clutches at whatever he can find. Can't even scream, it is so raw._

_It doesn't last long. Seconds later, that feels like years, Castiel finds his vision again. He is staring at the pavement, breathing hard. What he is clutching at his hand turns out to be a piece of glass. Blood is forming a tiny circle on the burgundy-colored bricks of the pavement. So many pieces, scattered about. Somebody must have dropped a glass bottle here – Castiel thinks, then remembers it is all Naomi's creation. _

"_You know the drill. I could keep going, forever." Naomi says. She sounds tired. She seems to be remembering the ten thousand persuasions and the ten thousand one puppets. The last one hadn't needed a prod. "Best if you cooperate, Castiel. It would make everything so much easier. Why do you keep resisting when you know it's pointless?"_

_It's all I can do, Castiel thinks. When his voice doesn't meet the silence amidst the distant white noise of the city, Naomi sighs. _

"_You know, I dressed up as a nurse to get to you faster."_

_Castiel slowly looks up at the unexpected opening. The sun isn't anywhere but the light is, a little paled behind the clouds. Naomi continues. "I couldn't wait for you to fall asleep. I thought it would be easy." Castiel still doesn't say anything. _

"_My point is, I can do it again and do you know how easy it would be for me, to go into Sam's room and stop his heart? Or get creative, switch the liquid into acid and watch it flow through his veins…"_

"_Stop." Castiel is standing up. He feels fear choke his throat. He doesn't know what his face is saying but it must be a good expression, because Naomi is smiling wide. Still a strong curiosity lingers in her eyes._

"_You've become human." She tells Castiel. _

"_He took my grace." Castiel says, though he knows it's not what she means. Naomi simply smiles. She knows that he knows, and that the knowledge will break him one day. She jerks her thumb at Dean, then holds her hands together in front of her in practiced patience._

"_You think I won't do it?" She lifts her chin a little. Then, again looking at Dean, "just push. It's just a dream, anyway."_

_Castiel finds himself stuck in the folds of forces. A piece of saggy lettuce between rock-hard breads. Naomi waits. Castiel knows she will kill Sam without a hesitation. She would do that without the invitation. Sam is Lucifer's vessel. She has always admired and despised him, Castiel knows. The only reason Sam is still alive is because of this – this, a leverage against Castiel. A human leverage for a former Angel now human._

_So Castiel closes his eyes and steps forward. He pushes. _It's just a dream.

_Dean lets out a yell like he's never heard before._

* * *

It was his own scream that woke him. Castiel sat in the dark and his breathing came in tattered strips. It took a moment for him to realize where he was. In the bunker, yes, he'd fallen asleep. It looked like it was still empty. He'd had a dream. Just a dream. Castiel tried to find comfort in that. Naomi couldn't _really _hurt him in a dream. She just made him think he was in pain. She couldn't_ really _have driven a metal rod into his skull between his eyes. She just made him think… and he didn't know the difference anymore.

Castiel sat up slowly, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Something else was wet. Castiel pulled his shaking hand away from his face, finding it smeared with dark blood. It was coming from the gash in the middle of his palm. He let his gaze fall to the table and the old hand mirror was broken, glistening in the dark. The pieces lay all over the table, across his laps and some were on the floor. Blood, his blood, was splattered in the midst of them in little dots like flower petals.

Castiel felt his breathing quicken. He tried to calm it down. He got up slowly, careful not to step onto the pieces. Tied his hand tight with a long white piece of bandage he found in the drawer of the living room, hurried to clean up his mess before Dean got back. He got the broom and gathered the broken pieces of the mirror. When he bent down to pick up the pieces on the ground, he found his faces looking up at him. There was a face in every piece, split and not whole, and every one of them had eyes on him. They watched him even as the bristles of the broom swept over them furiously. Then he wiped the blood from the table and the chair.

* * *

Dean pulled the car to a stop in front of the bunker. It was nice to have a place to return to, he thought briefly. Maybe _home _was pushing things a little too far, but it was a non-motel place he could come to at the end of the day and the mattress remembered him. He walked down the short steps to the door after patting the baby affectionately on the hood and fished out the key. He was in a good mood, relatively speaking. For the first time in a long time he didn't feel like he'd rather drown on the spot – the ghost of a betrayed brother – so he counted that as a win. He'd gotten in contact with Kevin. Kevin had told him there might be something on the tablet about Sam's problem. Note from God, _in case of emergency_.

Despite all that, he was in a relatively good mood. Even felt like listening to Metallica, which he'd forgotten about for some time now. It really said a lot about the quality of a guy's life when he forgot to listen to Metallica. Dean unlocked the door and walked into a dark room. The lights were off. It was six o' clock and the evening was settling in nice and warm. It was much darker inside the bunker, though. Dean wondered if Cas had been up at all or if he'd slept through the whole day. He shrugged the jacket off, threw it on the dark outline of the table and reached to turn on the light to the big room, which he called the _command center_ and Sam called the _study_.

What he saw made him stop for a minute. He almost didn't recognize the room. The books were all piled neatly to the side, in a sturdy pyramid with the largest books in the bottom. The papers were gathered. The horrible hand mirror, that Dean had always meant to get rid of but hadn't bothered yet, was gone too. The surface shined like the tables in the advertisement of IKEA. Feeling a little wonderstruck, Dean walked into the kitchen and found it similarly shiny. Like the first time they'd found the place. The Batcave gave off a glow like it had missed the old clean days before Sam and Dean.

"Huh, whaddya know. We got ourselves a house elf." Dean murmured. It was a little funny to imagine Castiel sweeping and wiping and washing the dishes – they now sat in a neat row beside the sink, drying the last of the water droplets – but he couldn't complain. Dean wondered why Cas had done it. He hoped it was because the messiness was annoying the crap out of him and he had nothing else to do. He hoped it wasn't because Cas was feeling useless.

Dean went back to the big room, hesitated, picked up the jacket he'd thrown carelessly on the table. It looked out of place, almost like a desecration. He hung it up on the wall hanger instead. He knocked tentatively on Cas's door but it looked like he was sleeping. Dean decided to let Cas rest. He checked the fridge and the burger he'd made was gone. Somehow that filled him with a profound sense of relief.

He popped a bottle of beer and sat carefully on the chair in the kitchen. He thought that he'd need to be careful to drink around Cas now. He got drunk even quicker than Sam. Who would have guessed.

* * *

Dean didn't sleep much. He felt that torching the night with alcohol was better than lying in an empty room, staring at the wall or the ceiling and trying to pull sleep over himself like a blanket that was too small. He'd only slouched to his room when the beer had run out. He hadn't checked his watch when he went to bed, but when his eyes blinked open the next morning it was six ten. Dean lay in his bed still in all his clothes from yesterday. He hadn't bothered to lift the sheets. He'd slung his dirty green jacket over himself, a blanket too small.

Dean looked to his side, an instinct. Even after months of living in the Batcave and in his own room, Dean still couldn't shake off the habit. Maybe it was that he didn't want to. Each morning he looked to his side to a bed that wasn't there, to look for Sam who wasn't there. Each morning Dean took a second to remind himself that Sam was fine, just in the other room. His room. They were not crammed in small motel rooms anymore. Sometimes Dean wondered if he missed it.

This morning, though, Sam wasn't in his room. Not here, anyway. Dean thought back to the white room that had Sam and a pale blue plastic curtain and the blue flowers he didn't know the name of. He thought that maybe the flowers need to be watered, although he didn't know much about flowers and how long they lived after being slashed away from their roots. He would go to Sam and maybe make Cas change the flowers. But he had something to do first.

Cas was in the kitchen when Dean walked in after throwing on relatively cleaner clothes and splashing his face with water.

"Hey," Dean said, pausing. Cas looked different. The stubbles on his face was a little darker, reminding Dean of Purgatory and the dark, almost black, blood on their faces. Obviously Cas hadn't heard about combs, so his hair was a mess. Although it hadn't exactly been that neat before. It was the clothes, though, that made Dean pause and blink. Cas wasn't wearing his saggy trench coat. The coat, it wasn't just a coat, though. It was something else that left a blazing hole in its absence. At first it was the uniform. Frigging Angels and their rules. Hammers, hard and iron and just extremely dislikeable. Dean had always associated the flapping of the wings with the flapping of the loose tail of the trench coat, the suit and the loosened blue tie, and it was douchey because Angels were Douchebags with big black wings.

And then it became something else. It was just a coat that Jimmy happened to throw on before his life came apart, except it wasn't anymore. It was Castiel like Bobby's cap was Bobby and Sam's flappy hair was – as much as Dean hated it – Sam. Over the years it became something much more than, just, something. When the black goo took him over and ripped him apart underwater, Dean had picked up the trench coat and couldn't throw it away. He carried it from one stolen car to the next, feeling like it was the piece of Cas that he could save. The only piece. When Castiel came back and remembered, Dean gave it back. Castiel wore it over Emmanuel's bland navy sweater and it fit him like a puzzle piece. His head broke and he fell into the cracks in his mind. When he woke up he put the coat over the white hospital gown and grinned like an idiot when he asked Dean to pull his finger. He'd watched bees and listened to Don McLean sing Vincent in Meg's car, but the trench coat stayed on. It followed him to Purgatory and the sight of it, lying across the dirt like some wounded animal where Castiel sat by the water, had filled Dean with hope. That maybe everything would be all right now.

Dean stared at Cas in his jeans and black shirt, in Sam's oversized hooded sweater that Sam didn't wear anymore. It felt like a piece of Cas was missing. It reminded him too much of the year 2014 that never came. The smile, the jokes, the broken ankle and the drinking. The death. Betrayal. Of his own eyes staring back at him, broken and deceiving his friends, to sacrifice them. He never forgot them. Even if it really had been just Zachariah's trick like he'd been trying to convince himself, it scared him to know that such eyes could exist. That he could fall so far to become something like that. He thought maybe he wanted to tell Castiel all this. He opened his mouth.

"Like your new look." Dean said. Cas looked down at himself like he was surprised.

"Thank you." He said. "Is this Sam's? I think it's too big for me."

"Yeah, it is." Dean said, chuckling at the sight of Cas moving around in the giant gray. He looked like he was swimming in it. Dean strolled to the counter to put on the coffee.

"We're gonna get you new clothes." He said to Castiel. "Something that fits. We can keep the trench coat…" his voice slid over it smoothly, made it sound like just another thing. Just a coat, anyway, " … and the suit. But you can't wear the same clothes all the time now."

"Yes, I realized." Castiel answered. He sounded tired. Dean wondered if Cas had tried to do the laundry. And that reminded him,

"Hey, Cas, did you clean up the place yesterday?" He asked off-handedly. A short pause, in which Cas was probably staring at the back of Dean's head but Dean didn't turn to check. He waited for the water to boil.

"Yes." Castiel said after a pause. Dean didn't know where that pause came from. Then he realized that he was trying to guess what Cas might be guessing about him. He thought about the play again. Wondered if all this was making sense somewhere, on the script.

"Why?" Dean finally asked. He waited for Castiel's answer, still not looking at him.

* * *

Castiel didn't know what Dean was thinking. It might have helped if he'd been able to see his face and expression, but then maybe not. Castiel tried to read the answers in the back of Dean's head and the fingers on the counter that he was drumming.

"I… don't know." And he didn't. It wasn't a conscious decision, he thought. He'd just seen the mess and started cleaning them. It took his mind off of other things. The dream, the decision he would never make. To say that, though, would be to invite unwanted questions. What did you have on your mind? What's troubling you? He would have to lie again, a partial truth that spoke so little.

"I thought I'd help around here… and be a little of use." Castiel heard himself speak. And he didn't know what it had done to Dean but it had done something because Dean's shoulders suddenly lost the tension and the drumming of his fingers stopped. Dean stood with his back to Castiel, silently. The coffee was ready. Dean poured Castiel a cup, handed it to him before his own.

Castiel wondered if it had been the right answer, or the wrong one. He desperately didn't want to be wrong, but there just was no way of telling. Castiel looked into the clear black liquid in the cup and felt the heat curl around his cheeks.

"So I thought I'd go see Kevin today." Dean said, and whatever indication there had been, Dean's reaction to Castiel's answer, was gone. Dean leaned back into the counter and sipped the coffee like it wasn't still scalding hot. Castiel tried to take a sip, paused as Dean's words sank in.

"You heard from Kevin?" He asked. Dean nodded.

"Yeah, he's holed up somewhere in the city. He gave me the address – " Dean patted the chest pocket of his jacket. It was the heavy green jacket again. Even Castiel could tell it needed a wash pretty soon, but Dean either hadn't noticed the faint bloodstains in the left shoulder or didn't care. " – I'm gonna go talk to him about the tablet. If there's anything about reversing the ritual. And then I'll come pick you up, we can go to –"

"I'll come with you." Castiel said, almost not recognizing the sound of his voice. It was urgent and desperate. He didn't like it. Dean looked surprised, words cut in the middle and hanging in the air.

"I mean," Castiel hesitated. It was different now, he was human, and maybe Dean didn't need him to come. He probably didn't. Maybe Dean didn't want him to come. Didn't want to look after a former Angel like a helpless puppy. "I mean, if it's… if you're okay."

"Yeah," Dean said, a little slowly. The surprise hadn't yet washed off from his face. "Yeah, if you want to. You can come."

Castiel nodded. The more he was around Dean the more he would have to lie, but he couldn't face the empty bunker with nothing but the pieces of a broken mirror stashed under the bed and the sleep that would come like a troop of marching guns and blades. Sleep, dreams, and what he would have to do. The second time, when he'd fallen asleep again last night, Dean had stood a little further from the edge of the pavement and it had taken a bigger push. Naomi had made him stay long enough for him to hear the first bones crack.

"Thank you." Castiel said.

* * *

"Okay," Dean said slowly. He felt warm, suddenly. The warmth from the coffee cup he was holding in his hand was spreading to every cell in his body. He felt like all his thoughts were overloading and exploding. It wasn't a terrible feeling. In the wake of its destruction was the warmth of the freshly made coffee, the clean kitchen of his new home and a friend, coat-less but still the same. Cas had issues, sure, and Dean wished he hadn't felt he was so useless he needed to clean the house to stay in it. Still he recalled the sweep of the familiar beige trenchcoat on the ground in Purgatory and how it had filled him with such hope.

"We'll go find Kevin together and then come back to Sam. Hopefully Kev will have something for us." Dean said as he finished the last of his coffee. It burnt the roof of his mouth. He felt good.

"Even if he doesn't," Dean added after a beat. "We'll figure something out."

Cas nodded, grimly like he always was. Dean wasn't too keen to see the loose grin and self-deprecating chuckle of the junkie Cas, but he did wish Cas would relax a little. Maybe that was why he grabbed the trench coat on their way out, finding it neatly folded on Cas's bed. To Castiel's questioning glance, he shrugged and said, "we'll get this cleaned."

And Cas's expression shifted into something like a real smile, the smallest.


	5. 4 Bleed Out

A/N: I still can't believe anyone would read my story, I can't thank you guys enough!(nani'anela you're an Angel, the good kind) Reviews that tell me what I'm doing okay and what I'm doing wrong would help me really much :) I wonder if I'll finish this story before Season 9 comes out...

* * *

4. Bleed Out

Dean almost forgot about it all. He'd always been proud of his ability to cut off parts of his brain like sushi rolls and stuff the dark things in them. Push them aside because dark thoughts and worries were like Chinese water ghosts that dragged and drowned anyone who passed. Dean sat in his car humming to Metallica and almost forgot about his problems. About Sam in his white room, about a world to save, about Cas. Cas being drunk and distant. Dean could feel Cas pulling away. He didn't know why. It reminded him of the time when his friend decided he'd be the next God and didn't tell Dean about it, and it scared him. Every now and then when he was alone he would resolve to ask, to confront Cas about it, but he'd never been the one to talk about his feelings. That was more Sam's front. So each moment, as fast and strong as they'd come, the feeling would slip away. Cas would do something stupid and human and it would make Dean laugh. Or Cas would be sitting shotgun, staring out the window and looking pensive, and it would almost be like the old times. Even without his trenchcoat.

There weren't many cars out on the road and Dean drove fast. He'd left the window open and wind rushed in. Sam hated it when Dean did that. His brother never admitted it, but Dean knew it was because his hair flopped around and slapped his face like a bitch. And Cas, Cas didn't exactly have hair like Sam but the thick summer wind was messing up his hair like you wouldn't believe.

"Hey," Dean called over the dash of wind. Cas turned his head to look at him. Dean couldn't keep a smirk off his face. "Man, you need a mirror."

"What? Why?" Cas squinted his eyes. Dean thought Cas looked more startled than he should have been. Sometimes Cas overreacted to the weirdest things.

"Your hair, it's…" Dean gestured with his left hand to his own head, making it fly all over. Cas seemed to understand. He self-consciously dragged his fingers through them. Instead of flattening, it seemed to be getting madder. And Cas looked so ridiculous for an Angel (a former Angel, Dean corrected mentally) that Dean took pity and rolled up the windows. Not before laughing his head off, though, and he felt better after that. A film layer of darkness lifted off, with every laugh that escaped his body. Cas looked pissed for all of four seconds, but then he gave in and smiled a little. They didn't talk much. They sat silently appreciating the tunes – Dean was – and it was just like the old times. Sometimes Dean wondered if he missed it, even though the pain then hadn't been any lighter than the pain now. At least he'd been younger.

The song ended on a high note and Dean turned the engine off. Finding a parking spot had been a bitch. That was one of the reasons they didn't hunt in big cities. That, and the fact that they couldn't distinguish between good, authentic monsters and plain human psychos in the papers in cities like this.

"Kevin's here?" Cas asked unexpectedly. Dean nodded. Cas looked horrified, like the city was putting him off his burgers. It probably was.

"I know. He thought he'd be harder to find in a big crowd, whatever." Dean rolled his eyes. "I'm no fan of cities, but hey, least they got…" Dean tried to come up with something that cities had, something good. _Museums_ might have worked with Sam. Dean was pretty sure Cas wasn't interested in staring at broken china and rusty bronze knives – he probably saw them all in action. Cas wasn't listening anyway, so he let the sentence drop and got out of the car. Cas followed a second later, in that stuttering, clumsy way that was starting to grow on Dean.

Leaving the Impala safely parked inside the alley, Dean walked out to the main road. The sky opened briefly and closed again as the tall buildings rose up and stared down at them like imposing fathers. Hotels, banks, insurance companies. Lights flickered green and red and green again. Cars raced past each other in blurs. People, a lot more than Dean was comfortable with, hurried left and right to wherever they'd left their hearts. Dean sidestepped as one businessman in a striped suit almost ran into him. He was staring into his phone and didn't say sorry. Dean raised his eyebrows, shook his head. He turned to make sure Cas wasn't swept away by the crowd. Cas was still standing a few feet away from him, looking dazed. He was staring up at something. Dean followed his gaze and found a big LED advertisement board, stuck to the side of the tallest building. He wondered if Cas was looking at the pasta or the pretty blonde girl eating it.

Dean stepped a little closer to the edge of the pavement. No trees to shade the thin sunlight poking through the clouds. He shaded his eyes and took out the receipt paper on which he'd scribbled the address Kevin had said. Kevin had told him to park his car by the main road and come by foot. Precaution, he'd insisted. Sometimes Kevin was too annoyingly smart. Like Sam.

Dean had to screw his eyes to make out his own writing. He remembered he was downing a glass of something – whiskey? – when he got the call. He looked up, tried to determine which building was which. There was the fashion school, in all its fake golden glory, and two buildings to the right. Enter the second alley and turn left. Go up the stairs… Kevin had whispered like those robotic voices in Mission Impossible.

Dean sighed. They'd have to cross the road first. He looked left and right but the cars were all moving too fast. One wrong step and he'd meet his glorious end up in the air, twisting and falling. Dean searched for a crosswalk. There was one in front of the fashion school. The school with its Greek-style columns, and the clothes shops beside them that Dean would never… Although Cas needed to buy new clothes. Maybe that checkered trenchcoat in the show window? Blue and black patterns – and wool, too. Dean had to bite his lips not to laugh out loud. His mind, though, generously supplied him with an image of Cas wearing that trenchcoat, with his usual serious expression – _Dean! –_ and Dean finally sputtered. He started talking and a choking sound came out.

"Hey, Cas, how 'bout that coat over there? It looks like the last one, except it's blue and it'll bring out your…"

Dean wheeled around but his eyes were lost. Cas was no longer standing in the crowd some distance away. He was right in front of Dean, and as soon as he registered the blur in front of his nose Dean startled and almost fell backwards. Almost. He grabbed Castiel's sleeves at the last minute, planting a foot behind halfway out of the pavement. Cas swayed a little but stayed standing. Cars honked as they screeched past. _Be careful you idiot, _somebody yelled.

"Whoa, _dude_!" Dean said as he straightened up and quickly moved away. His heart was beating fast and heat had rushed to his face. Came so close. An image of himself, blood exploding like lava and painting pretty pictures on the burgundy sidewalk. On Castiel, still standing dumb and silent.

"You almost got me killed!" Dean hissed. He grabbed Castiel's shoulder and pulled him away from the edge, just in case. "Personal space, Cas! You do _not _stand so close to…"

Cas turned his head and looked at Dean.

"I… I'm sorry, Dean, I…"

And then, every pretense – every precarious sculpture of normalcy he'd built up shattered like a snowball. The sushi rolls disintegrated and became a messy porridge. Dean lost whatever he was going to bitch about. Cas's eyes were big, turned down like a beaten puppy – that face that always reminded Dean of Sam – and he looked terrified. Dean blinked. Cars and people dashed past them and they stood still in the middle of the city.

"I, it's okay. I'm fine." Was all Dean could say.

* * *

Castiel looked behind Dean, under the broken streetlamp where Naomi had stood just a minute ago. A second ago. She was not there. Only her smile seemed to linger behind like that cartoon cat Castiel had seen on TV and couldn't get out of his mind. He looked back at Dean and blinked. His vision settled. The world got its colors back again, and he wasn't dreaming, was he? Dean's eyes were clear green, almost like a mirror. They looked terrified.

"I don't know what I was thinking." Castiel choked out a lie. He knew – He was thinking it was a dream and Naomi was standing behind Dean, urging him to push, _push. _Castiel almost did, because it was only a dream and he wouldn't _really, _in real life. No. He almost did.

"What do you mean? Were you… what…" Dean blinked rapidly. His grip on Castiel's shoulder tightened. Fingers dug through the gray sweater that was out of season. Castiel shook his head quickly.

"Nothing. I just wanted… I just, nothing." He was never going to admit that he'd almost pushed Dean over the edge, into oncoming traffic and messy death.

"Did you find where Kevin is?" Castiel tried nonchalance instead. Dean stayed silent. Castiel knew that Dean saw through him. Not completely, he was still confused, but enough to know that something was wrong. And that Castiel was trying to cover it up with a deathly white tablecloth – just lay it over like snow. Dean's eyes, green that turned light and dark, always spoke a lot more than his words. Castiel read distrust and fear in them. Or maybe those were his own emotions, reflecting in the green mirror, staring back at his own face.

"Yeah, it's, that building over there." Dean finally said, maybe deciding to let it go one more time. Castiel let out a quiet breath. He knew it was a risky rope they walked on. Each ignoring each other's problems, burying them behind shells made of summer wind and trenchcoats. Their excuse lay in a white bed in a hospital, next to a dying bouquet of blue flowers.

"What, uh, what were you going to say before I…" Castiel lightened his voice. It fell back lower as he struggled to find a proper way to finish the question. Dean saved him by shrugging. He let go of Castiel's shoulder.

"Nothing important. Just a fashion advice."

"Fashion advice?" Castiel frowned, "from you?"

"Hey," Dean chuckled. It came out wrong with weariness and mock-indignation mixed and ground, but Castiel was glad to hear it. "Being mocked by an Angel," Dean muttered. Castiel didn't apologize, especially after he saw where Dean pointed and spotted the despicable thing pretending to be a coat. He hoped Dean was not being serious about this.

Kevin had darker bags under his eyes but looked okay. He and Dean talked, their voices rising and falling as frustration and hope and weariness exchanged hands. Castiel tried to listen but his mind kept drifting back to the cars and the green lights, the back of Dean's green jacket and his green eyes that brought him back to reality. Castiel knew _what if _was a question that would drive him mad but he couldn't help it. _What if_ Dean hadn't turned when he did? _What if _Castiel had pushed him, not realizing it wasn't a dream this time?

His fear crawled up from his stomach, almost drowned him where he sat. It hadn't taken three weeks, much less thirty years. He was disgusted at how weak he was. He was an Angel, if Naomi was right and that never changed, and he was supposed to be stronger. But if Naomi was right, Castiel would break and kill Dean very soon, and maybe all his brothers and sisters would find their homes again but Castiel would lose his. He would destroy the one thing that… no, it didn't really matter what _he'd _lose. What mattered was that Sam would lose his brother and it would be because of him. The world would lose Dean Winchester and it would be because of him.

Naomi was wrong. Castiel had to believe it. He would break the connection somehow, like he'd done before.

* * *

Dean didn't say a word on the way back to the bunker. Castiel didn't press him. He knew he was scaring Dean in some kind of a fundamental way. Castiel had weaved Dean's soul back together string by string and knew something that he would never admit to knowing. At the very core of his being, surrounded by layers of calloused fingers and shiny metallic cars, the fear. Protected and hidden so well that it was almost sacred.

"You hungry?" Dean said, suddenly, as they neared the now-familiar road toward the bunker. Trees rustled in the light wind. The sun had started to dip and dripped red all over. Dean squinted at the window as the light infiltrated his eyes. Castiel watched him for a moment.

"Not really." He answered. His stomach growled in protest and Castiel felt a different kind of heat rush to his face. It stained his face a different kind of red, than the liquid sunshine through the window. Dean chuckled.

"You wanna go to a diner or something?" He asked, not taking his eyes off the road. The last bits of the sunset was exploding now, soaking Dean with orange and red and cast oblique shadows on the curves of his face.

"I…" Castiel hesitated. "If you want to, sure." Castiel didn't really want to go. There would be people and foods he did not know the name to. There would be people who were too friendly, or too cold. Castiel couldn't deal with them. He couldn't look at them without thinking about the people he'd killed in the name of a false God. He couldn't stand to look at Dean in the middle of those people. Sometimes Castiel got dizzy, sometimes he thought those people were leaking black goo. Keep them, away from you. Don't you understand?

"Nah, don't really feel like it either. I'll just… we have some bread, right? And leftover green stuff?" Dean said just as Castiel was beginning to lose his head again. Castiel couldn't even bring himself to be scared anymore. He wondered if it was going to be like this forever.

"If you mean lettuce, then yes. But we don't have much else in the fridge." Castiel said, feigning sanity. Only after he said it did he realize he'd used the pronoun _we_. It took his mind off his broken head for a moment. He silently wondered at how natural it had come.

"Grocery shopping, then. You can stay in the car. I heard about the last time."

"What?" Castiel shot up his head, a slight panic in his voice. Dean glanced at him curiously, forehead creasing a little.

"You told me, Cas, remember? How you threatened the clerk for pie?" Dean said. Castiel vaguely remembered that conversation. It had been one of the things he'd confessed to, sitting in that corner bar waiting for destined love to show up, smell of whiskey in Dean's hand and his voice. _E.T. goes home. _Castiel still didn't know what that meant but he thought Dean said it as a consolation.

"Yes, I remember." Castiel admitted.

"I mean, pie _is_ a noble cause to threaten for if there is any, but still. We don't have to cause a scene." Dean paused, hands deftly sliding on the steering wheel and pulling the car to a stop. "Why'd you do that anyway? You don't even like pie, do you?"

Castiel stared at Dean for an inexplicable second. Suddenly he felt very tired.

"No," Castiel said. "But you do."

Dean stopped, stayed a while in his seat even after the engine died with a soft growl. The sun had finally dropped over the mountain, only a residue of the brilliant dying light illuminating the world. Blue was taking over, landing on everything and turning it cold.

"Yeah, well." Dean finally said. Castiel thought Dean sounded confused, although he didn't know what could be so baffling about it. "You should, too. I'll get you some. In fact, I'm gonna have to educate you proper on eating before Sam wakes up and ruins you." Dean's voice turned lighter by the end of the speech, even managing a slight smirk. Castiel watched as Dean got out of the car, watched his back disappear behind the door with a jingle of bells, distant.

Dean came back with a shopping bag full of things like paper towels and eggs and bread and leather cleaner. The pie was yellow and creamy with brown crusts and it sat on the top of the bag like a crown jewel. Dean dumped the whole thing on the back seat of the car. Cas twisted his body to see. There was no beer this time.

* * *

The anxiety hit him like waves. One moment he forgot about it, caught up in something trivial like brushing his teeth – which really took a lot of concentration, even with Dean's rough instructions – but then as soon as his mind was free to wander, it hit a solid wall shaped like Naomi and winced in pain, died a little bit. The anxiety hit him like a blunt force to the middle of his throat, cutting off air and making his head spin. Sometimes he really did see two or three in the place of one. He tried to hold on to his consciousness, though, pinching himself to remind him that it was not a dream. The back of his hand swelled up very quickly.

Dean left him in the main room while he prepared dinner. He wouldn't say the phrase, though, _preparing dinner. _It must be one of those forbidden expressions like _watching stars _and _bringing flowers for Sam_. So Dean grunted something like, hungry, something burger, shuffled into the kitchen with the grocery bags and left Castiel alone. Castiel tried sitting still. It didn't really work out. He was afraid he'd fall asleep again, and that when he woke up this time it'd be Dean's face broken instead of a mirror. Castiel stood up, paced the room aimlessly for a while before wandering into the other rooms.

The bunker was more spacious than he'd thought. There were many rooms, doors and hidden doors and secret doors behind hidden doors. Castiel didn't dare touch most of them. He wandered through the hallways like a lost ghost, trying to keep the weariness from reaching his eyes. He stopped in front of his room. Dean told him it would _have _to be Castiel's room now because apparently the mattress remembered him. Castiel had no idea what that meant. He didn't go in, not wanting to face the pieces of the broken mirror he'd stuffed beneath the bed. So he walked on. Jimmy's worn-out leather shoes made empty sounds echo around the hallway.

Castiel didn't know where Sam's room was. In his memory, Sam had always been in the study or downstairs in the basement looking for lost files. This room, though, Castiel knew whose it was. Dean had prayed for him in this room, asking him to look after his little brother and Castiel hadn't answered him. This was Dean's room.

Castiel hesitated only a little before turning the doorknob. The old door opened without a noise. He opened it just wide enough to go through, somehow feeling the outside might pollute whatever was inside. Maybe Dean's fear was hidden in the depth of it. Castiel felt the wall for a light switch. It was an old-fashioned one, smooth from use. The light came on with a soft buzz as electricity crackled. Castiel looked at the room without stepping in.

There was a bed, a bedside table, and a display of various weapons along the wall. A shiny axe was right by the bed, hanging dangerously. It was a like a mobile for little children, almost, only instead of a cushy toy car it was Winchester style – bloody and metallic. There wasn't much color in the room. It was neat, the bed made perfectly. Pictures of Dean's family sat carefully arranged on the bedside table. In an unexpected way, Dean's room was just like Dean. Like what was hiding beneath his skin.

Castiel cautiously set foot inside the room, careful not to disarray the air and taint it. He made his way to the table. The picture was of Mary and John and…

Castiel stopped as a shiny object caught his attention. It was a silver bracelet, lying near the photo. It had chains that were anti-possession symbols, symbols to ward off against malicious spirits, clearly a hunter's bracelet. Castiel could see there was something else about it, though. He picked it up and the metal felt cool against his thudding skin. It was like that time he held Dean's amulet. A very special amulet. Castiel never told him why it was special.

The amulet was made in a rural town in India. A trader picked it up and sailed to the United States on a stolen boat. It saw many garage sails and finally ended up in the hands of Bobby Singer, who gave it to Sam, who gave it to Dean. It was just an amulet. It was Dean, the Righteous man, that made it special. It was special because Dean thought it was. Just the same with this bracelet. Castiel thought it must have belonged to Mary. He wasn't exactly sure how he knew it, but if Naomi was – but if he was still an Angel in the deepest part of himself, then he would know. Castiel grabbed the bracelet tight in his palm and it didn't warm up even as his blood boiled around it. He turned off the light, closed the door and made his way down to the kitchen still holding the bracelet. Urgency, colored with shaky hope, quickened his pace and his footsteps roared all over the bunker. Dean looked up at the sound as Castiel descended the stairs, almost falling over his own feet.

"Cas! Where've you been?" Dean spread his arms apart, like an exasperated parent. He was about to say something else, but his eyes narrowed as he spotted the bracelet dangling from Castiel's hand. "Wait, is that… Cas, were you in my room?"

"I'm sorry, Dean, but this is important." Castiel said in a breath as he descended the last of the stairs. Dean stared at him, incredulous. Castiel shoved the bracelet in Dean's hand. Dean grabbed it instinctively, then continued to stare at it like Castiel had just given him his beating heart. Castiel huffed in impatience. His breath was shorter than usual from the sudden rush of movement. "Put it on."

"What?" Dean looked dazed.

"This is your mother's. It's special. It will protect you." Castiel said. Dean's eyes changed from confusion to surprise, then doubt. Castiel watched the colors shift like a late night show.

"How will it protect me? From what?" Dean was skeptical. He cradled the bracelet in his palm anyway. Held it like a newborn baby.

"I don't know. Your life… it's not, safe."

"Yeah, tell me about it." Dean rolled his eyes. He shifted his weight onto the other feet. They were standing too close, because Castiel had almost tumbled down the stairs like a ball of string. Dean noticed it, took a step back. Castiel wanted to shake him hard. He was frustrated for reasons he couldn't tell.

"This will protect you from some of them. Even Angels – not completely, but still." Castiel said. Dean looked up at the mention of Angels, but he still didn't put the bracelet on. Castiel wondered if it was the _manliness _thing again. It made him sigh out loud. Dean flinched.

"Dean, I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not an Angel anymore." Castiel said it in one go, not even hesitating. It was getting easier to admit. His heart no longer cracked.

"Yeah, I noticed." Dean said gruffly. He looked uncomfortable. Like it was _his _fault, somehow – and Dean would think that. Castiel spoke quickly.

"And – and that means I can't protect you anymore. I can't come and lift you out of a tight spot. I have to use a gun to fight, and bullets are slow. I can't – I can't heal you if you get hurt."

And who knows what else, what Naomi might try to do. Castiel didn't say that. "It's just that I'm," _afraid. _"Human."

Dean didn't speak for a moment. Silence bounced off the walls and pounced to strangle them.

"Alright, fine." Dean finally said just as Castiel was beginning to choke. He sighed in relief. It was a small thing, but it smudged the darkness within him a little bit. He had to know that he was still capable of doing something. Things happened to him but he had to know he could make them happen too. Make the house clean, or give Dean a protective bracelet. Those things eased his fear. In Castiel's sanctum was that fear. Angels were made to serve.

"I've got something for you too." Dean said after he'd slid on the bracelet and pushed it inside his sleeve. The dangling silver chains still showed a little bit when he moved his hands. Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black thing.

"What is it?" Castiel asked, suddenly feeling very tired. The dreams made rest difficult. The fatigue was catching up to him and he wondered if this was part of Naomi's plan. He leaned against the rail of the stairs.

"It's a cell phone. Thought you'd need one. Here… wait, hold on." Dean made to hand the device to Castiel, but withdrew it again. His fingers danced over the screen, pressing something here and there. Satisfied, he held it out to Castiel.

"Me and Sam's numbers are already on the list. Not like you'd forget, but just in case."

"Thank you." Castiel took the phone. It was bigger than his last one, had significantly fewer buttons to press. He experimentally pressed the one in the middle low, and the screen came to life. Castiel stared at the background photo.

"Dean," he said.

"Yeah?" Castiel didn't have to look up to check. Dean was holding back a laugh, hard. He was probably pressing his lips together in an attempt to hold back the tide. His voice choked on the short syllable.

"What's this?" Castiel asked, still not looking up. The screen went black. He pressed a button again.

"Aw," Dean said, laughter bubbling underneath. "You know, just a picture. Of you. You were pretty drunk."

He broke at the last word. Castiel wanted to be angry for being ridiculed, but couldn't bring himself to. It took all he had not to grin stupidly while Dean choked on his own laughter. The sound carried through the hallways and danced in the stale air as Dean made his way back into the kitchen. Castiel smiled a little when Dean wasn't looking.

He _would_ have to change the photo, though. It was disturbing if nothing else.

* * *

Castiel was confident he'd be able to slay a supernatural monster. If he ever went hunting with the Winchesters again, if Sam woke up and Castiel didn't go mad and they let him. But sleep, the heavy eyelids, he didn't know how to fight that. The more he tried the more he felt like falling into a marsh. He knew crocodiles waited in that marsh, waiting to twist his mind into bloody knots, but that didn't help him stay awake. He tried to listen to Dean as he talked on the phone about Crowley and reversing a spell, but his voice slipped on his ears like it was walking on ice. Before he knew, Castiel was drifting off and the chair beneath him was becoming some kind of jelly. Dean was grinning as he hauled Castiel off from the table, leading him to his room. Castiel wanted to walk but couldn't find his legs. Sleep was waterfall crashing down in blinding light. Dean talked to him, but Castiel didn't really catch the words. Dean sounded like he was talking to a child.

_Forgot… clothes. Leave some for you, okay? My things. Sammy's… too big. _

Castiel thought he nodded. Then he was being led to something soft, the blankets fell on him like snow and the last of the light was escaping with Dean, who closed the door behind him.

_Goodnight, Cas. _

* * *

_"Having a good night?" Naomi asks. Castiel doesn't bother to answer. He looks around instead. Darkness envelops him like an old friend. The air is quiet, not buzzing with movement and thick noise like he's grown used to. The novelty of the situation scares him._

_ "Where are we?" Castiel asks. He can't even make out the room he's standing in. Only Naomi, who is fully visible even without a light. She is clad in her suits again. Her heels don't make a sound as she takes a step forward, gesturing with her hands around the room. _

_ "We, are on the next level." Naomi says. She snaps her finger. A bluish light pours into the room, though it's not that bright yet. Castiel closes his eyes, opens them again. He wishes to wake up. But it doesn't work like that. He looks around. He recognizes the room now, and it is an unexpected punch to his chest. _

_ "How did you know where…" Castiel stammers. Naomi gives him a big smile, showing her white teeth. _

_ "I've done some research." She answers. "What do you think, Castiel, did I get it about right?" She turns her head to observe the room she's created inside Castiel's head. Castiel can't find his voice to answer. He is tired. He wishes he'd wake up. _

_ "The axe there, hanging by the bed. Is that normal for humans, or just your human?" Naomi asks. Her face is distasteful. She snaps her fingers again and the axe disappears. Castiel doesn't answer. He looks at the table by the bed and the pictures are still there, brown and crinkled from the years, but the bracelet is not. Naomi has done research, and it sends shivers down his spine. It makes him feel like there is no escape. Like he is going to crawl through thick smoke only to find there never was any door on the other side. Castiel tries to tell himself that he won't give in. He will endure this like he's endured the timeless time before – before Dean._

_ "Doesn't matter." Naomi is saying, when Castiel continues to remain silent. "So, next level. You have to stab him this time, so it may be harder at first."_

_ Naomi conjures an Angel Blade for him. Castiel stares at the metal in his hand. He has never realized how heavy it was, gravity screaming and clawing at it and it is hard to hold it up. Castiel relaxes his fingers and drops it. Before it hits the ground, though, it's back in his grip. Castiel meets Naomi's eyes and she looks amused. A trap, a mouse trying to escape. _

_ "But," Naomi carries on like nothing's happened. "It'll be easier than the tests back when you were an Angel, because Dean will be asleep." She snaps her fingers. Castiel thinks she does it for a dramatic effect. This time, the empty bed is suddenly filled and Castiel stares at Dean's back again – at the wine colored shirt that he hasn't bothered to remove and the green jacket that he uses as a blanket. Dean sleeps lying on his stomach, his head turned away from Castiel and both hands under the pillow. It doesn't look much like sleep and Castiel wonders if this is how it is, really. He thinks it must be. Naomi's other details are so perfect. _

_ "Go on, he won't even know what hit him." Naomi whispers, like Lucifer must have done so many years ago – telling it like he has a choice. He doesn't. Naomi has made it pretty clear. No use telling Dean about it, or moving Sam away. Naomi tells him that she's got new ways to follow them. It must be true. It must be. Castiel closes his eyes. _

Why are you doing this to me.

Really, Castiel. How could you be so selfish?

_His eyes begin to bleed but he doesn't even feel the pain. It is like ransacking through an already festering wound – all senses destroyed, anyway. Anyway, doesn't feel it. He finds he has raised his arm. _There, that's good, _Naomi cajoles and Castiel closes his eyes. He feels the blood running down like tears. He tries to tell himself that he won't give in. _

_ But the problem is, he doesn't quite trust himself. _

_ He suddenly finds himself outside the door. He looks at Naomi and she nods encouragingly. _Go on in, _she says. Just making it a little more complicated. Thought you could handle it. _

_ Castiel pushes open the door. He blinks and another stream of blood carves a river on his cheeks. Dean is sleeping, Castiel is holding an Angel blade. He takes a quiet step forward. _It's just a dream_, Castiel thinks. The silence cuts him like a knife and he bleeds again. He would bleed out before he kills Dean, but this is only a dream. Castiel closes his eyes, takes a step forward. Naomi watches. Another sin, to join the herd, watches in the corner. _

* * *

The door didn't creak. The floor was smooth from countless feet brushed on it. Soft friction, bare feet touching and lifting. There was no wind tonight. Fabric rustled ever so slightly. Breath, careful and measured and slow. Heartbeats – he imagined the heartbeats. A looming shadow, reflection on the shiny side of his weapon, no blood.

Dean wasn't quite asleep when Castiel quietly crept into his room with his arm raised high and an Angel blade in his hand.


	6. 5 Dear Dean

05. Dear Dean

_Dean wasn't quite asleep when Castiel quietly crept into his room with his arm raised high and an Angel blade in his hand. _

He was thinking about Derek. He didn't know what led him to that ancient memory. He hadn't thought about Derek in years – buried it deep like a treasure nobody would find. Dean thought it might have been the beer. The one bottle that he'd hidden from Cas, under the bed. It hadn't tasted like anything when he downed it in a gulp. Dean was too used to the parching aftertaste of it – and one bottle wasn't much of anything, anyway. Derek had had dirty blonde hair that was the color of barley.

Derek hadn't been young, but not old either. Dean had thought he was old anyway. Back then, he was a boy of sixteen and thirty-six looked like a sickly stream that he'd never have to cross. Derek, he was the first life Dean had saved, by himself, on his first hunt all alone. Dad had been down with a nasty flu – a flu that had taken down John Winchester, and a few days later, Sam. It was middle of February and the streets were confused with the gray remnants of snow and the valentine day decorations, little paper hearts hanging from shop windows, that stained it red like drops of blood. Dean found Derek in the back alley somewhere, surrounded by trashcans and torn paper hearts and a hungry rat. Not a natural rat, of course. Supernatural freak that munched on human skull instead of grains. Silver bullet to its head, there was blood splattering like firework and the rat was dead. Dean remembered he'd been flushed. Heart beating fast, the vibration of the metal gun still like an echo in his bare hand, finger clicking on the safety like a deft sailor. Derek – he didn't know it was Derek then – looked up slowly. Blood drops were on his shirt, which was gray or maybe white. Dean picked up the giant mutant rat and threw it into a plastic bag for burial. Scrunching up his face, he then put the squashy bag inside the duffle, threw in the gun after. He thought about leaving it by Sam's bed with a present note attached, but thought better of it. The little bitch would try to eat his face.

When he stood up, he noticed that the dirty-blonde dude was still slumped against the fence, among trash and blood and snow. He was looking at Dean with an unreadable face. Dean already knew that most times simple gratitude was asking too much, but then the guy wasn't running away from him either. He didn't look scared or shocked. If anything – and Dean was too young to know what it really meant then – he thought the guy looked a little tired.

"I'm Derek." He said suddenly. Dean blinked.

"Dean." He said. Then, striving for indifference, added, "and you're welcome."

Derek looked back at him like Dean had said something unexpected.

"No, I'm really not."

"What?"

"What?"

"You – nevermind." Dean rolled his eyes. Blood was still pumping fast through his veins and he didn't have a second to waste on some stoned loser in the back alley. "They never thank us, anyway."

Dean turned to leave. He grabbed the duffel bag and snow fell from it like diamond dust.

"Thank you? For what?" Derek's voice was a distant shadow, not much of anything. Dean felt a sharp spark of frustration. He snapped around. Derek was still sitting there.

"Dude, I just saved you from a man-eating rat!" Dean held up his bag as a reminder. Derek didn't say anything for a while. In an odd sense of defiance, Dean planted his feet. He wasn't going to leave until he got a thank-you from this guy. Sometimes a man deserved some gratitude for risking his life to save others. For throwing his entire life into the bin – he was thinking of John. He would get this thank-you, maybe deliver it to his father like a present.

"You're young." Derek said, finally. Dean huffed in annoyance.

"Nice observation. And you're old."

"Yeah, I'm old. How old are you – fourteen? Fifteen?"

"I turned sixteen last month!" Dean said, defensive. He was sure he'd be taller soon, as tall as John.

"Okay, sorry. I'm thirty six." Derek shifted, not to get up but to find a more comfortable slouching position.

"That's old."

"I know. And when you… when you get to my age, kid, it don't matter if a man-eating rat eats you or not." Derek said like he was delivering the great secret of the universe. "'Cause no one misses you."

"That's not true." Dean said, suddenly frightened. "That's not true."

"When you get to my age, Dean." The man repeated. "You'll understand."

Snow started to fall then, like a dramatic curtain falling over the final line. Because the snow made it the final line, Dean couldn't say anything else. He left with the bag, left Derek sitting against the fence. Buried the rat in a corner of the cemetery and didn't tell dad about it. John didn't ask where he'd been. Sam did, but Dean didn't tell him either. Hey, didn't you have an essay due Monday – and that was a good distraction.

Dirty blonde hair, dirty green eyes, dirty gray shirt and snow. Dean realized he wasn't so far from thirty-six now. In just a few years. If a giant mutant rat ate him, though, would anybody miss him?

Sam would. That was, if Sam was still alive at that point. If he wasn't, if Dean couldn't save him, then he might as well feed himself to the rat.

Dean opened his eyes. Closing them didn't help with anything. Sleep wasn't coming anytime soon. He stared at the weapons stretched along the wall and thought they looked useless. Used to be reassuring, safe. Now he just didn't know.

Sleep didn't come. Dean thought of Cas. _Need _was such a strong word, he thought. Weak, though. Dean would be stronger if he'd never needed anything. Not John's approval, not Sam. If he didn't need his job to keep him going, not his car to remind him of untold wishes and dead family. Of home, which he thought he had now, but it was a tentative thought. Dean was scared to think about it for too long. He imagined it might blow up in his face and burn out his eyes if he let it. Good came along so rarely that he didn't believe in it anymore. And yet…

_Good things do happen, Dean. _

It was hard. The Demon, Angel business, not having a game plan. The world going nuts and businessmen walking fast in their leather shoes – oblivious, always oblivious. The hardest part was that Sam was lying still in a hospital room, blue and purple bruises on his skin and light, shallow breaths. _You and me against the world. _It's hard when there's no you, Sammy.

But then there was Cas. Cas came to his life as an intimidating figure in a forgotten barn, black wings and bright blue eyes. Now, though. Cas was in his washed-out jeans, but the same blue eyes. Cuts on his chin from shaving adventures. At least he was here – and as he was thinking that, he heard the faintest creak of the door.

For a mad moment Dean thought it might be Sam. Miraculously cured, a lucky break for once in their lives. Dean lay still and waited for the bubble to burst. It did, in the shadow of a familiar head reflected on the shiny side of his axe. It was Cas. He was carrying a blade in his hand, was creeping closer with it raised high as if to…

Dean felt frozen in the moment. He swore he could hear the crack of the walls, of the fake castle he'd built and called home. Cas's bare toe stumbled a little over a protruding edge of the floorboard. A ghost of a breath filled the room. One was slow and even. The other one was silent altogether. Dean felt the unreleased breath filling and crowding his head. He let go. His breathing came out peaceful. He didn't move.

Dean thought about getting up. He was scared to face Castiel, though, to see his expression. The remnants of the castle he was buried under, it exploded in burning trails across the stars. In that moment Dean felt numb. The darkness peeled off a layer of his shield and Dean wanted to scream. To cry, to roll over and meet his eyes, to scream – but what would he say? _Cas, why are you trying to kill me? _If there was an answer, he didn't want to hear it. He was too tired. So he did nothing and lay still as a corpse.

Because if Castiel went through with it, he'd be a real corpse but it wouldn't matter much. _When you get to my age, kid. _Nobody would miss me. _You'll understand. _Eaten by a supernatural rat, stabbed by a former Angel.

So Dean waited. The stale air in the room filled with the breathings of the two, two even pumps of poison in the air. Dean waited with his eyes closed.

Finally, there was a break in the steady rhythm. A silent, sharp intake of breath. A shuffling of feet, scrambling backwards and trying to be quiet. Dean kept his breathing even.

When Cas eventually backed out of the room and closed the door, Dean felt he could understand Derek now. Suddenly his jacket was too heavy on his legs. He felt cold. He wondered if it was the snow, falling in disconnected pieces over gray and red.

_It is his entire garrison that lays siege to Hell, but only Castiel who enters the final chamber, to get the Man. "It should be you, Castiel," Inias says. "You are our captain." There is a general murmur of agreement. Castiel looks around and sees that they are all scared. They are scared to face the Righteous Man that Broke. They were too late. They waited for the order to change but it didn't. If they have doubts about it, they won't show._

"_Very well," Castiel says. He is also scared to find what is beyond the door. But, as Inias said, he is their captain. He thinks it might be easier for the Righteous Man if he assumes a form most familiar to him. Castiel seeks out the image of a man, meant to be his vessel on Earth. Flexes his fingers a few times. He walks in bearing the mark of God in a Godless place._

_Castiel doesn't know what he's expected but what he sees surprise__s__ him. The Righteous Man looks back at the ruffle of his wings and there is blood on the blade he holds. A woman is lying on a table in front of him, mouth covered with leather, but the blood isn't drawn from her. The Man hangs his hand, drops it like a weight. Blood drips into a fast-forming puddle. _

"_Dean Winchester," Castiel says. Dean's eyes are green._

"_Who's calling?" Dean answers. His voice is deep, broken, malicious, strong. Castiel has been practicing for this moment in his head, over and over again. He takes a breath._

"_I am Castiel, Angel of the Lord. I am here to save you."_

Dean woke up next morning, confused and muddled from the sleep he didn't remember. For a second he thought he remembered his dream vividly – just an image, but etched and burned into his skull – until he sat up and he couldn't remember it anymore. Jus the color red. Red, like blood. Probably blood, because what else did he dream about?

His bones creaked into place as he stretched his arms. He threw the jacket aside and slung his legs out to the side. Sudden flash of bright white, a short loss of vision and a shorter moment of panic – he gripped the undisturbed bed sheet and the dizziness passed. Throat too dry, moved too fast. He rubbed at his eyebrows, trying to remember how much he'd drunk last night. He cast his eyes about the room looking for empty beer bottles. Didn't find any. Instead his glance fell on the giant axe he kept by his bed (mostly because Sam thought it was disturbing) and the red, the silent footsteps, came back. The memories were sudden. They hit his head like a fast-thrown ball and knocked his breath out. The Angel Blade – the night, was it a dream?

But there was nothing red in the memory. Glint of silver against metal, the surreal silence of it all and his own breathing sounding too peaceful. Dean tried to remember why that was. He slid his hand under the pillow, dread quickly settling in his stomach like alcohol. It made him dizzy, drunk. Dean felt the sleek metal of his gun on his fingers.

"Damn," he muttered at the ceiling. Silence intertwined itself with complete stillness, not even a ticking clock to push it away. Dean Winchester, he heard a voice say. You're a coward.

He couldn't decide if it sounded more like Dad or Sam – maybe neither. He thought it might be Mary.

Dean got up slowly, smooth floorboards barely making a sound as he fumbled around for his shoes. Funny, they'd sounded so loud last night.

Last night, he'd thought – he'd identified himself with Derek. Was that right? He'd stayed there helplessly, pathetic, while someone was approaching him with a knife and – and granted, that someone had been Cas but still.

Something blocked his throat as he mentally pronounced the name. Dean stopped in the middle of lacing his boots, willing the emotion to go away. Emotion he didn't know the name to, and didn't know how to swallow. He didn't know if the acid in his stomach would be strong enough to melt it away. So instead he wondered, _Cas. _Castiel. When had he started calling him _Cas_? Surely he must have heard it somewhere – it had latched and curled onto his tongue so naturally when it'd come. Cas hadn't minded either, like he'd heard it before. Yeah, someone must've been calling him by that name long before. It made sense. Castiel, it was a mouthful anyway.

Dean left the jacket – it was getting too warm for it anyway – and went downstairs with oblivious, purposeful energy.

"Cas!" He called as the sound of his footsteps stumbled and fell down the stairs. He was scared, a little light-headed – didn't know what had possessed him on the way, the short way from his room to the kitchen but he was ready now like he never was.

"Cas?" He called again as he peered into the kitchen. Empty. Dishes done and blinking water drops on the counter.

Dean was starting to feel anxious. The sudden burst of energy wouldn't last long – not so much energy, as courage.

"Cas, come on. We need to talk." Dean said as he made his way to the main room. He was, for once, for once when it mattered – ready to talk. Sam would flip and dance. But this had nothing to do with pleasing Sam, or coming to terms with your feelings – the psychological crap. This was as desperate as electrocuting a rawhead when it came at you with its ugly mug raging murder. The feeling of being suffocated, this tight rope they were dancing on – it was breaking and Cas was slipping away. Again. Dean was just slipping. So, so there must have been an explanation. Maybe Cas had thought Dean was in trouble. Maybe he'd been sleepwalking.

Whatever it was, he needed to talk. He needed to believe again. The silence of the insanely empty bunker was smothering, stealing his breath.

"Cas!" He called again. There was no one in the main room, just a stack of papers and books piled too neatly. There was no one in any of the rooms.

Dean checked Cas's room last, wanting a few more minutes in the empty hope that Cas might just be sleeping in. He clung at it as he felt the last strand break, the rope coming back fast to slap into his face. Cas's room was empty. Almost like no living soul had ever touched it, perfect like a picture in the magazine. Dean stood still for a moment. He was afraid to think, to process this. He was almost afraid to breathe.

So it had been a bad choice, comparing this with shooting that rawhead. That time Dean had almost died.

He took a deep breath but it didn't steady him. It only seemed to shake him more, like oxygen was just another demon trying to eat him alive. Then he wondered – he couldn't help himself, his thoughts reached it so fast – if it wasn't real. If Cas really hadn't been here, if he had been dreaming, still dreaming –

When he wakes up, would he be cradling Sam's body, limp and lifeless, in the mud in front of that church? Would the Angels still be falling or would they have turned to rain?

Dean wanted to laugh, or cry, or both, and he sat down on the perfectly made bed. Feelings overload. Numbness followed.

He didn't know how long he just sat there, trying not to feel anything and concentrating on the intricate stitching of the blanket. He touched it, it gave way too easily and Dean's hand sunk under. He almost lost balance and fell forward. Didn't, though, the mattress was a gentle strength that pushed back. It was a good mattress. One of the best Dean had ever slept in.

And it remembered the owner.

With a sudden jolt, Dean sprang from the bed. The thought was so funny it almost choked him. Dean didn't laugh, though, afraid he might lose it, laugh out his internal organs. The mattress remembered him, it wasn't a dream. Of all the things.

There was one other thing. Before he handed Cas his new phone, Dean had turned on the GPS. He didn't exactly remember what had been passing through his mind at the time – maybe he'd thought Cas might be in danger? Or maybe, Dean heard a whisper, maybe you knew something like this would happen. Because everyone leaves –

Dean stopped himself right there, cut it like he cut off Benny's head. Swift and painful, a part of his soul falling with it to the dirt. He'd had to bury him after. Right next to his old set of bones.

Dean didn't think of anything else as he drove to the beeping dot on the screen, following road signs without reading them. He wasn't even aware of where he was going, until his entire world became that red dot of the GPS, blinking, blinking.

Cas was wearing his trenchcoat. Washed and ironed, looking better than it ever had in Dean's memory. It had always looked rumpled, like Cas couldn't even imagine it looking otherwise. Even though he could've fixed it new with a thought. Back then, he could have.

Cas was wearing his trenchcoat and jeans underneath, but for a moment the flailing tail and the tan color of the coat was all he saw. It was like his mind, crippled as it was, couldn't handle to take in more than one thing at a time. As soon as the red blinking light merged with an oblivious figure in a tan trenchcoat, his mind grabbed onto it like a lifeline. So it was a while before Dean saw anything else. It was a piece of paper clutched in Cas's hand. Dean's old duffle bag strung across the back of that trenchcoat. It was the airy voice running to and from the vast emptiness of marble walls. The orange letters against black board, flashing destinations and times – the empty chairs and those occupied by people with suitcases, briefcases, backpacks, purses. An old duffel bag. It might even have been the mutant rat's home, all those years ago.

In his single-minded determination to keep the thoughts at bay, Dean hadn't even realized where he was going. He stopped when he did. It was a bus station. A big one. People and voices mingled and faded away in the background. Cas sat in one of the blue plastic chairs in the waiting area. He hadn't spotted Dean – back turned, the ticket set carefully in his hand. Cas waited. Dean waited. He moved a little to the left, so the big marble column could hid him if Cas turned around. It took a while for his brain to trudge and catch up, but Dean whished it hadn't. When it finally did. When it whispered in his ears, _Castiel is running away. _Leaving you.

And Dean blamed it on the timing. Sammy lying unconscious, fate of the world in balance – again, too much – too much. The only real friend running away. Maybe in better times he could have dealt with it but he was just too damn tired now and there was a limit to the amount of alcohol a human body could take until it dissolved. So he blamed it on the timing. Dean Winchester was usually not a coward but sometimes he thought he was. He'd come to confront Cas but now he forgot – _why?_

Castiel checked the ticket he held, watched the destination flicker on the neon board in front of him. It switched to departure times, as he watched, and switched back to places. It was a city he knew nothing about except its exact longitude and latitude on this planet. He tucked the ticket inside his pocket and watched the people sweep over him like water, none of them noticing him. He began to compose a letter he would never send.

_Dear Dean, _it would start. That was how people started letters – _Dear Dean. _But then he did not know to proceed after that. Which words would explain? His betrayal, his trust, his faith, his dependency and the will to keep fighting. How to fit all of that together with this picture of him running away? An empty duffel back, stray coins and bills he'd scraped from sock drawers. How to explain?

_I remember the first time I met you in Hell_, Castiel wrote in his head. _But you don't._

I remember, Dean, so many things you will never know.

I suppose an apology would be redundant at this point. I have failed you in the past. Would you believe me, though, if I told you that this is me trying to redeem myself? If I told you that I run to save you. I run so not to destroy. I thought I could fight the dreams, Dean, like you did for thirty years on Earth and thirty more in Hell. Even as you died, even as everything was slipping away. I am trying to do the same – would you believe me?

The next sentence was empty air. Dean wouldn't understand.

_I was an Angel once upon a time._

Dean wouldn't understand. He wouldn't know, because Castiel wouldn't be there to tell him.

For a startlingly intense moment, Castiel ached. He wished everything would be different. He hardly remembered the eons before, of being soldier and faith and existence. Time lost its meaning. It all converged onto this point, right here, where he was but a man running away from a nightmare. In the end, none of that time mattered because here he was, betraying the only friends he had left.

_You run away all the time. _You start to lose count. _You don't tell me what goes beyond that endless stream of time. _You look at me and I see the forever before, the forever after. You run away.

Should I go after you, Cas, because I don't think I can anymore. You run away and I'm tired of chasing after an illusion. What I thought, what you're not.

Dean stared at the back of Castiel's head. Cas was fidgeting but dint' get up so Dean stayed, half-hidden behind a column and just watching. The words spilled onto the frightening emptiness in his head. Dean wondered why he was never this articulate – outside his head, where sound met air and shook it, died before it reached ears. It was like writing letters, though. Dean had always been good at writing letters. From the _I miss you mom _he'd scrawled on a sketchbook, the letters on the fast food bags that he'd never sent to California, the one that was supposed to go into a box with his leather jacket and car keys. Dean didn't start his letters with words like _Dear Cas_. _Cas, _he'd just write in blocks, fast and furious as if he didn't care. _I'm so tired of chasing after you._

_I don't need this right now. I don't care if you feel guilty or if you think…_ Dean didn't know what Cas thought. It didn't matter, though. Cas was running away and Dean didn't know if he wanted to chase after him. Sometimes – sometimes even dogs got tired of fetching sticks. Sometimes blades of grass cut his muzzle when he bent down to pick it up, sometimes he just wanted to lie down and never get up again.

_How they were my brothers and sisters but I would not kill you to save them all. How it is not about the trade or anything. Just that I cannot kill you, take your life and call it love. You called me a brother. _

Castiel stopped. It was pointless. He saw himself sitting in a bus station, holding a ticket to a city he didn't know, composing a letter he would never send. It was pathetic. So pathetic, it almost made him laugh. He couldn't believe that he'd once made the sky burst open with his will, looked down at humans with detached curiosity that he'd dutifully called love. Now he was just a man in a trenchcoat. His throat was dry.

Castiel looked up and found a machine with bottled water, cans of sodas in it. Its window was glass, and the frame red. It was big. It looked like someone should be selling them – Castiel was beginning to understand the concept of currency – but there was nobody in sight. Castiel looked left and right but the people were indifferent, reading newspapers and lulling babies. Castiel recognized the burning sensation in his throat as _thirst. _He couldn't remember the last time he drank something, and suddenly felt dizzy. He got up slowly.

Dean was going to leave. Because he was a coward, because he was mad, or tired, he didn't know. He told himself that he had larger things to worry about than Cas. It was a truth and a lie at the same time. Yeah, the world was in danger, but what was new about that? In the end he'd chosen Sam. In the end he'd always come back for family. He would have, anyway. If it had been Sam…

Sam wouldn't run away like this, Dean decided. Sam could be a stubborn, stupid son of a bitch sometimes but he wouldn't just leave in the middle of the night and get on a bus. Because he was his brother. Because no matter where he went, Dean would find him. Sam would steal a car, anyway.

Dean almost turned away and he would have left then, if Cas hadn't stood up suddenly. Dean froze. He was still half-hidden behind the column but Cas could have seen him if he'd turned. Cas only looked left and right before slowly making his way forward. His footsteps sounded fatigued, echoing much too loudly over the announcements and voices. He'd left the duffel bag on the chair. Dean almost lurched forward, words hanging from his lips. His body wouldn't move.

Dean watched Cas. Cas was walking to a vending machine, hands in his pocket and walking slow like a seventy-year-old. He wobbled a little bit, too. When he reached the machine he held out his hands like he'd seen God. Dean watched with ridiculous incredulity.

"Stupid son of a bitch." He muttered. "You have to pay first."

A chuckle escaped him then, and it surprised him.

"_Save me?" Dean turns his body now, not toward Castiel but the other way. Castiel hears him put the knife down, clatter. The woman is still silent. Her eyes are wide. "How?"_

"_Well, I…"_

"_What, you gonna grip me tight and… and raise me from perdition?" Dean's voice is mocking. Of what, Castiel doesn't know._

"_If that is how you want to put it. Then, yes." He answers. There is no light in Hell, only absence of darkness. Dean's silhouette is both frail and firm._

"_Go to Hell," Dean says. "Or, you know, stay. We've got plenty of room."_

"_I don't understand." Castiel says, frowning. Dean turns then. His face is extremely alive for a dead man, for a Righteous Man who finally Broke._

"_You can't save me, whatever you are." Dean says it like the truth._

"_Why do you say that?"_

"_Because you can't. Nobody can. Things like that don't happen to me."_

"_Good things do happen, Dean."_

"_Not good," Dean smirks. "Impossible."_

"_I don't understand." Castiel says again. Dean shrugs. _

"_You wouldn't."_


End file.
